


The Last High

by variola_in_c_major



Series: The Denial Twist [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angel Siblings, Angelic Grace, Angels are Dicks, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Background Case, Big Gay Love Story, Canon-Typical Violence, Chuck Shurley's A+ Parenting, Closure, Dead People, Dean is In Over His Head, Depression, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Roller Coaster, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Family Dinners, Family Issues, Family Reunions, Friends to Lovers, Gabriel Being Gabriel, Getting Back Together, Heaven, Heavy Angst, Holy Themes, Homophobic John Winchester, Human Gabriel (Supernatural), Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Loss of Grace, Loss of Identity, M/M, Mardi Gras, Multi, New Orleans, Post-Denial Twist, Post-Season/Series 09, Running Away, Sam Is Trying His Best, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Team Free Will, Wordcount: Over 50.000, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-11-22
Packaged: 2019-03-29 17:50:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 87,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13932177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/variola_in_c_major/pseuds/variola_in_c_major
Summary: Sam isn't sure which was worse: the near decade of intense angst and unbearable sexual tension leading up to Dean dragging himself out of the closet for Cas, or the happily married and unfortunately loud couple in the next room over to him. On the bright side, he's not alone in the struggle to decide; there is an ailing archangel in the Bunker as well, the kind with the devious smirk and juvenile humor that for some reason seem to align the stars themselves. So all in all, it isn't so bad after all.Well, not until his family and especially dead love of his life show up on his doorstep, heaven is overtaken by a forever-overshadowed tyrant out for blood, and everything he knows and loves spirals out of control at an exponential rate. Then it's...not so great.





	1. Sometime Around Midnight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheMermaidLord](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMermaidLord/gifts).



> S'up, folks? Thought I was dead? Guess again, suckers. You're not getting rid of me that easily, and neither is the depression I've been suffering from for the past three months. In lieu of that, I've not been updating as I should have been, but I just couldn't shake the idea that the Denial Twist felt unfinished, so, upon request by TheMermaidLord, I'm writing this to remedy that lack of an ending. Buckle your seatbelts, ladies and gents, and prepare for another helping of angst.
> 
> Note: While I of course *recommend* reading the Denial Twist, you don't probably have to in order to read this. Still though, if you're looking for some additional context, the link is [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10648749/chapters/23562402).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Following the end of the Denial Twist by an 11-month gap, we start with a wedding, and a lonely one no less.

Hands against hands, adhesive to one another through slippery palms, and legs that seemed to step just a hair behind the rhythm on either side as they clumsily attempted what could’ve loosely been interpreted as dancing were the two factors that had brought about the emotion stirring in his chest. And it wasn’t a first, the emotion, but the fact that it had come so suddenly out of nowhere at such an inopportune moment caught him off guard. The swelling sensation occurring just shy of where his ne’er beating heart lay had shocked him abruptly, whilst in the middle of attempting to take a sip from a half-empty, smudged glass of scotch that his brother had poured with a barely concealed shakiness earlier.

It was the feeling of utter loneliness, and he wasn’t particularly fond of it. In fact, Gabriel was actually overly acquainted with the emotion, to the point where he’d stopped feeling it altogether long ago, and instead had resorted to lashing out at anyone else who dared experience it in front of him. Granted, all things must end eventually, and that sort of self-serving, resentful behavior had simmered to a halt about a year ago, when in the midst of wandering around Los Angeles, contemplating what sort of cruel irony he would inflict on the philandering criminals staying at one of the many fleabag motels in the area, he’d come across a face he’d thought he’d likely never see again.

That very same face was stretched ear to ear with a grin, across the room he currently stood in. And to some extent, he supposed he had played a hand in that, which was one of his very few achievements he could actually take some degree of pride in. It had certainly been a rocky road, but he was grateful to see his favorite brother again after all these years, and his favorite brother genuinely happy nonetheless, gazing lovingly at the hunter he currently held hands with, swaying behind the beat of the song. Truly, Castiel was nothing if not resilient. 

Now Gabriel, not so much. As oceanic eyes caught his lingering, he averted his gaze, quickly feigning interest in the exceptionally tall frame of the Moose a few yards away, who seemed to be out of his element, peering similarly out at the crowd with a nervous eye. Several people aside from Castiel and Dean had taken to dancing, but they were mostly couples, twisting and turning under cheesy, romantic string-lights set up in the Roadhouse to the hypnotic croon of the vocals overhead. Gabe gave the entire room a once-over before resting whiskey-tinted eyes on the younger Winchester once more. He seemed as alone as ever, if not more so, although he caught the archangel looking and flashed a closed smile, not bothering to let his gaze linger long enough for the recipient to analyze the storm brewing behind his eyes. 

Sam Winchester had been some special kind of enigma the past few days leading up to this event. He’d had little to no hand in planning it, and rather, Ambriel and Gabriel had been responsible for most of the decorating, although the hunter in question had arrived later to help organize the food, which had been picked up from a local diner that Cas and Dean both enjoyed by Charlie Bradbury, a plucky, red-haired dork of a lesbian, and Garth Fitzgerald, an overly cheerful, boney-framed hunter who seemed to take nothing personally, no matter how it was directed towards him. Those two had also made the necessary preparations preceding the small ceremony, which Garth, who had revealed himself as an ordained minister, conducted. The whole matter was something of a triviality though, really, and for principle rather than practical application. 

His brother was an angel, lacking surname and government identification as an existing citizen of the country. Dean was a fugitive, dead but still wanted for a list of crimes that Gabriel neither cared about nor recalled. It wasn’t as if the marriage certification meant licensure, as though the angel and the soldier could be formally married in the good ol’ US of A, but then, that wasn’t really what it was about. The commitment had been the intention, as evidenced by the glint of the rings on the hands of either one as they passed fleetingly beneath warm, white twinkles and back again. And it hadn’t been the suggestion of either of them to have a ceremony commemorating the occasion, but Gabriel had piped up with the proposition, and yet, neither bulked at the idea, and the angels always loved a good party, thus, there they were.

However, Sam. The younger Winchester, and arguably the more troubled of the two, had barely even been around for the proceedings. Aside from standing by as Dean’s best man—which had him parallel to Gabe’s own position at Cas’s left, he’d participated scarcely in the activities up to this point, and it was hardly remedied by his continued stares above the crowd, standing still in a small, sparsely populated ocean of hands and knees in silence, appearing vaguely pained every few moments, as he scraped at his neck with poorly concealed anxiety.

It was curious, and the Trickster had thus far kept his mouth shut about it, despite noticing it much earlier, but the longer it went on, the more he found himself genuinely concerned for the health of the Moose.

It was an easy drift to get through the crowd unnoticed, which was a rare perk of his vessel’s ‘height deficiency,’ as Cas had so crudely put it many months ago, and he soon found himself besides the hunter, albeit at a much lower altitude, speaking, “Moose! Why the long face?” with a nonchalant tone.

Sam visibly jumped, before whirling to see him. “O-oh. What long face? I’m having the time of my life right now.” He attempted to pull up the sides of his lips in a grin, but they ended up falling nothing short of resembling a grimace.

“Wow, you’re not even trying to convince me right now, Sammich. What’s with the nervous tick?” Gabriel stood on his toes and gestured to the red marks beginning to appear on the taller Winchester’s neck from his incessant scratching. “Caught yellow fever?”

Sam immediately clamped a hand down over the mark defensively, directing his attention to the bar. “I’m fine. Just have a rash. That’s all.”

“I don’t think they call them rashes if you cause them yourself, kiddo. Something’s got your panties in a twist. What is it? You see your ex-girlfriend somewhere?” Gabriel jested, knowing damn well that that likely wasn’t the case, since Sam’s romantic history had been not sprinkled with, but doused in death. The archangel honestly couldn’t think of a single hookup that was still alive and walking. 

He was surprised to hear the hunter force out a chuckle, although it sounded pained. “No. Nothing like that. I just…uh…ah, I shouldn’t say anything. Tonight’s not about me.”

Gabriel quirked a brow, intrigued by Sam’s reluctance to share exactly what was brewing in that enigmatic head of his. He felt a nudge brush by him as someone passed behind, and he took a step forward, closer to the Winchester. “Well, for some people, it’s not. But let’s say it is, for me. What’s on your mind, Samshine?”

The hunter still looked rather hesitant to speak, which could’ve been the fault of the topic, or the settings, or perhaps that his audience had once turned him into a car and killed his sibling several hundred times, but after a few more seconds of uncertainty, where the two maintained an intense eye contact, he finally admitted, “I forgot how much I miss Jess.”

Gabriel couldn’t actively recall at that moment who he meant until Sam continued, clarifying, “Uh, my girlfriend from college. The one who Azazel…um…got to.”

“Right.”

“I guess, it’s just, being around the two of them before, at least sometimes I could take a little bit of pride in knowing that even they were in love and in denial of that, we were all, on some level, alone. Lately, it’s began to feel as though it’s just me.”

The archangel stroked an imaginary goatee, glancing at the shoes of his conversation-mate for inspiration. “Have you considered dating?” he tried, half-jokingly, raising his eyes along with his brows to meet the hunter’s face.

“Dating?” Sam nearly laughed. “I don’t know. Is dating something that people even do at this age? I just…I don’t know, Gabe. Dating at this point feels…I feel like I’ve missed the deadline, you know? The cutoff age. I’m too old. People my age are supposed to already be married and have two or three kids, and a house and a…real job…” His voice cracked, decreasing in volume as he trailed off, leaving the statement without punctuation, and he glanced away, eyes becoming rather unfocused as he gazed at something in the distance. 

“Agh, stop that right now, Sammich. Feeling sorry for yourself is not an attractive quality. You didn’t get the picture perfect life you wanted to have at this age. So what? Most people don’t. Some never do. You can’t put an age cap on finding happiness, kid. Believe me, I’d know.” He made an offhanded nod in the direction of Cas and Dean, who had given up dancing in favor of feeding one another cake, poorly, across the room.

Sam’s expression shifted only minutely as his followed Gabriel’s cue, then returned his eyes to the Trickster’s own. “It’s not happiness so much as fulfillment. We’ve been on the road forever, Dean and I. And for him, that makes him happy. But this was never my dream, hunting, and I’ve been so far removed from what normal life is like, I don’t even know what I would want to do if I quit the game now.”

Gabriel knit his brows together in contemplation, attempting to remember facts about the Winchester boys’ pasts. Sam had been the runaway, the only family disappointment to ever attend Stanford University on a full ride. He had majored in…ah, what was it? Something ironic. “Not interested in courtroom drama anymore?” he guessed. 

Sam shook his head disappointedly, hair swinging loose from behind his ears and coming to fall in his face before he brushed it back once more. “I think I’m stuck this way, honestly. I’ve been in the life too long. Reality isn’t enjoyable anymore, knowing what lurks in the darkness. I’ve tried several times to escape, and something always brings me back. I think…I’m meant to be here. What I wonder though sometimes, is whether or not I am also meant to be, uh, miserable…you know?”

_What a glum moose_ , the archangel mused, cocking his head to the side and observing the melancholy Sam was obviously trying to push off with his nonchalant tone. Like he himself hadn’t been there before? Oh please. Pretending like crap didn’t bother him comprised most of his life, on heaven and on Earth. He was a bona fide expert in self-loathing and depressive existentialist ponderings. He knew exactly how to handle this.

Not even bothering to ask, he reached for the hunter’s hands and clutched them in his own with a sideways, mischievous grin. “Oh, come on! A pretty boy like you, meant to be miserable and alone? Oh please. I can’t believe you’re really trying to sell me on the gorgeous, tall moose-man Sam Winchester being less than a hit with every lady who’s ever laid eyes on him.” At the alarm on the mentioned man’s face, the Trickster pulled him close, then ducking underneath his arm and doing a small twist with a flourish, bowing to lay the tiniest of kisses to his hand. “I mean seriously, Sammich. I know I may play the joker from time to time, but I’m no fool!” 

He leaned in closer, standing on the tips of his toes to bring himself as close as possible to Sam’s ear. “And neither are you. So wipe that pathetic look off your face, Sam. Everyone’s got someone. Even tonight.” With that, he proceeded to pull the hunter forward, winking as the two fell into a semi-awkward arrhythmic sequence on the dancefloor, Sam adjusting to the sudden action with forced enthusiasm. 

Avoiding it.

Dealing with his problems wasn’t exactly one of Gabe’s more prominent qualities. But dancing? And trickery? And avoidance? Oh, he could do those tangos until the day he died. 

A pair of hands were clutched tightly against his own as they both moved, finally finding the beat of the song. It was nothing like Dean and Cas, who seemed to see nothing but each other as they had swayed underneath cliché twinkle lights, like some kind of grotesquely sappy ending to a Hallmark film. Sam dodged his gaze whenever he could, as though he thought he could actually hide anything from the archangel he was dancing with, and Gabe, despite lacking any sort of human bodily functions, could feel his palms grow sticky from the flesh to flesh contact. He was finding it difficult to focus on any one thing, mind racing with frustration.

He wanted to do more than this. Offer some real advice. Make the hunter happy. Sam, after all, had been far more decent to Cas than Dean ever had been, and the younger Winchester’s existence had helped ease Dean, in a way, closer to the breaking of the boundary that had allowed this event of marriage to even happen in the first place. And although Gabriel would never, ever, in a million years admit to it, Sam had always been his fan favorite of the two siblings. Dean? Dean was boring. All daddy issues and flannel and shotguns and inferiority complexes. He was a walking cliché, same as the lights he danced under with Castiel, but Sam—no, Sam was more complicated. Always had been. Even now, averting his eyes as soon as they came close to clashing against the whiskey-toned gaze of his dance partner.

Sam Winchester was a mystery. A very complex human being, with more self-hatred than he should have ever been shouldering. But Gabe got that. Ohhhh boy. Yeah. Gabe definitely got that. You run away from home and leave your family behind to crawl even further inside their perverted cultural norms of existence, you’re going to experience some guilt. And Sam had a lot of that. Guilt. Again, Gabe was acquainted with the emotion, if not overtly so considering his own situation.

In a way, he understood. But the lack of companionship, the lack of love Sam spoke of, wasn’t something he had felt in a particularly long time. Mostly because he was never around actual, passionately-ingrained, genuinely sincere love, just sex and hatefucking for the hell of it, because what else were you to do if you were a god with an infinite amount of free time and a ragtag crew of questionably moral-conscientious Pagan beings intent on causing destruction? He’d had no life to speak of for the past hundred or so years. His relationship with Kali, if you could call it that, was nothing short of some masochistic practical joke he’d managed to play on himself as a way of being rightfully punished for leaving his home when his brothers and sisters had needed him the most. She’d been cruel, but at least she had been honest. He needn’t have ever wondered what her feelings for him were. It had never been love, in the pure sense. 

And if you tell yourself something doesn’t exist, and then put yourself in an environment where it doesn’t for so long, it doesn’t exist. For years, centuries, maybe even millennia, Gabriel had done a thorough job of convincing himself that boundless, relentlessly binding love did not exist. And then something happened. Dean Winchester died and went to hell, and Gabriel’s younger brother, Castiel, who he’d not heard a peep about in forever, reached back in, meeting impossibly green eyes as he did so, and pulled him out, never breaking eye contact from thereon after. Gabriel truly would’ve preferred to believe that Castiel was stuck in a relentless crush, and Dean in the warm, comfy euphoria of knowing that this attractive, powerful being wanted to be with him, but that was the thing about love, he supposed. It did transcend all obstacles it encountered, particularly in this case, which explained how exactly he came to be understanding Sam’s hopelessness all at once as he cast a long, aching glance towards the other couples in the room, finally landing on the example that had broken him out of his previous mindset.

It was odd. His hands were not supposed to sweat, and yet, when he abruptly parted from the hunter, mid-song as he felt his knees weaken, they were drenched in clammy stickiness when he touched them together. It hadn’t been Sam. His hands were cold, like he’d been walking through a winter’s storm all night. What was this?

“Gabe?” Sam questioned, raising an eyebrow with concern. The shorter man’s eyes snapped upwards, legs beginning to take on jelly-like stance as he met Sam’s gaze. “You alright?”

“Of course! But you stepped on my foot, Moose, and this is good practice for if you were dancing with someone other than an immortal being of pure celestial intent, like myself.” He batted his eyelashes at the hunter with a charming grin, wiping the panic off his face in an instant. He shouldn’t be exerting human condensation. His legs should have been firm and absolute in their standing. And he definitely should not have even noticed if the Moose trampled accidentally on his foot.

Sam, unfortunately, was not an idiot, and saw right through it immediately. It was evident on his face that he didn’t believe a word Gabe had hastily spoken; probably a side effect of having lived with the guy for almost a year—he could practically sense the lie from a micro-expression. It was almost a natural reflex now, noticing. “You? Pure intent? You sure about that?” 

He left the question open-ended for a response. It was ripe for a lie. And to be honest with himself, Sam was almost hoping for one. He didn’t want to know what had caused the abrupt detachment. Not tonight. He himself had taken the spotlight off Dean and Cas enough with his self-loathing, piteous pointlessness. 

“Ah. You’ve got me there,” the Trickster replied, pleased to comply, stepping closer once more to clasp larger hands with his own, seemingly unaffected as he smirked and added dramatically, “Casa Erotica strikes again.”

Sam found a small smile that he was able to pull to the surface for appearances, unaware that he wasn’t the only one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have playlists for most things, and this is no exception. As a firm believer that music makes everything better, I'm inclined to think that it heightens the experience in this case. Not to mention those feels though. [ x ](https://open.spotify.com/user/rotomtoms/playlist/26IGUtCvKfalmL4BCro2W3)


	2. Out of My Mind

The case in question was in New Orleans, and it was all hands on deck. An entire nest of vampires had settled down into a blood feud of some kind with several high-ranking officials on a housing development project they’d unknowingly designated to a staked territory that apparently wasn’t looking for any renovations. Sam had briefly questioned the validity of the case, and whether or not it was something they should even remotely meddle in, but three weeks into Dean and Cas being accidentally extra gross than usual, and he was practically begging for an escape, so there they were, parked on a sidestreet covered in glitter and gold as everyone stepped out of the car, stretching their limbs after having been on the road for a few hours. 

“What are all of these things?” Cas inquired, leaning down to examine the various shades of sparkles all over the ground. His recently purchased trench coat, a replacement for the dingy one that had suffered several irreparable bullet holes from a bar shootout a few months ago, nearly scraped the ground as he knelt, before he hastily pulled the edges inward. 

“Mardi Gras, Cassie!” Gabriel replied cheerfully, slinging an arm around his sibling and dragging him upright with glee. His demeanor, which had been notably more sullen and withdrawn the past few weeks, had taken an abrupt turn for the better when Sam had announced their destination for this week’s hunt. He gave no context, typical of him, really, but regardless, Sam was secretly relieved that the archangel was so chipper about such a glum and messy mission. 

“I thought this was called glitter,” Cas replied, knitting his brows together in intense confusion. Dean, who’d complained of a migraine for the past hour and half of their journey, sighed, rubbing his temple with a pained expression. 

“It’s called the time of your life, if you know where to go.” Gabriel threw in a good wink for emphasis before releasing Cas and bounding over to the tallest of the group, that horrible, shit-eating grin still on his face. “Which, speaking of, where is all the gore, Samshine? Last time I checked, this place was supposed to be a bloodbath, not the remnants of a drunken prom night.”

Sam should have been able to answer that question. And he could’ve, and would’ve, if his attention hadn’t immediately been attracted to Cas, who had found a stick somewhere and used it to pick up what was none other than a lacy pink bra off street, dangling it by the strap as he cocked his head to the side, confused. Gabriel, annoyed at not having the hunter’s full attention, whirled around, intending to see just what was so important, and immediately began cackling.

Dean on the other hand, was horrified. “Cas! Put that down!”

“But…Dean, some woman is missing her undergarments. It’s important for us to return it to her, is it not?” He barely got to finish the rest of his statement before Dean had whacked the stick out of his hand, allowing the bra to tumble to the ground in a heap. Gabriel was two seconds away from starting to genuinely snort.

“No, Cas. Not…not in this case.”

“Oh.”

“You know, it’s still Tuesday.” Like that, the Trickster had switched topics, voice coming out as a husky whisper, eerily close to fhis ear. Sam stiffened, body slowly relaxing as the connotation sunk in. Not Mystery Spot Tuesday. Fat Tuesday was what the Trickster was referring to, which meant the Mardi Gras festivities would still be going on for the rest of the day, overlapping into the evening. 

Hm. Mardi Gras and the Trickster? He could see where this was going. “And?” he asked ruefully, well aware that this conversation was either going to end with his shampoo being mysteriously replaced with Nair, or his own tired sighs being drowned out by the overenthusiastic shouts of ‘hell yes!’ by the archangel, and there was no amount of dodging he could do to change that.

“You ever been to a Mardi Gras parade, Sammich? It’s quite the experience.” The implication was clear, even without Gabriel directly stating anything. That devious glint in his honey-tinged eyes as he turned and threw Sam the most achingly endearing look the hunter had ever seen was unmistakably intended to sway him even further in the direction of participating in the festivities. “Cas has never been to one. I say we smite these bloodsuckers good and early so that we can stay and partake in the par-tay.”

As if to put extra emphasis on his desire to go, the archangel latched onto his arm, clutching it with both hands as he peered up at the hunter, head cocked to the side to give him a puppy-dog look that Sam absolutely did not want to see, because he knew it meant saying yes. Dean always made jokes about Sam being the one with the misunderstood, piteous face that could make anyone’s resolve crumble, but the younger Winchester begged to differ. The Trickster had perfected his craft of deceit impeccably well, and that bled directly into his manipulative tactics.

The last time Sam had made the mistake of meeting that faux innocent gaze, he’d ended up buying the largest bulk candy bag for Halloween that the supermarket, which was already unreasonably exorbitant with its pricing, had, all because Gabe had pleaded, getting more and more annoying with each continued whine.

The archangel truly was a monster, and he knew it, which was precisely why he was clinging to Sam’s sleeve, standing up on his tiptoes to intercept Sam’s repeatedly avoidant eyes. “Thoughts, Samsquatch?” He urged, waltzing circles around the hunter and emerging from various angles to shoot him that same tormented look.

Ugh. This wasn’t going to work long-term. “Fine with me,” he mumbled, only partly meaning it. He didn’t like going into a situation unprepared, and this one had disaster written all over it from the get-go, but he supposed that as long as they didn’t run into the Alpha Vampire, they would likely be fine. After all, they had not just one angel on their team, but also that regretfully powerful prankster currently beaming at Sam with all of the smart-assed satisfaction of a teenager who’d just given a kid a swirly.

This guy is an archangel. He had to remind himself of that sometimes, despite the fact that he’d seen Gabriel’s abilities on display numerous times before. It just never seemed all that…heavenly, he supposed.

“Don’t be salty, big boy. It’ll be fun. I promise.”

\--

“I don’t know how to make it any clearer to you, Cas. CSI: Miami is horrible.”

“I rather enjoyed it, despite all the flaws you listed. Are you not supposed to put disbelief aside when watching television? I thought that was the point.”

Such mundane conversation, coming back from an exhausting, 4-person slaughter of what felt like an entire species. Sam didn’t feel too much like celebrating, but then, he never really did, especially as of lately. Unfortunately, the last member of their party wasn’t content to just let him rest in his hotel room, as he wished, and was already talking at three times the speed Dean drove by the time they’d rolled back into city territory. 

Sam wanted to sleep. Not that that was anything new, but it certainly would have been refreshing, considering that he’d not engaged in the activity for an ongoing 3 days, unbeknownst to his brother, who surely would’ve shoveled pills down his gullet if he’d been made aware of the issue. Sam, however, was choosing to keep silent in the interest of preserving the peace. Things had been so nice for the past few months, after the initial mania of Ambriel and Gabriel both moving in, and then the former moving out after she’d decided to embark on a personal quest to go to culinary school and learn how to cook.

The whole situation seemed absurd to Sam, but then, Ambriel was always an odd angel, and Dean had endorsed the idea on the condition that she come back and show them what she’d learned every so often. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that his older brother was eager for the absence of one set of wings leaving if it promised excellent food—maybe even pie—in the future. Additionally, it left the room open, in the case that Garth or Charlie wanted to come and stay, not that they did. Everyone had remained busy in the year past. And aside from Dean and Cas finally admitting their feelings for one another, and the Bunker getting two more, now just one more tenants, nothing had changed.

They were Team Free Will, or so Dean said. Monster hunters. Killers of the creatures that went bump-bump in the night. _The family business_ , Sam mentally finished, bitterness creeping over his tongue at the thought.

Suddenly, the archangel whirled around, stopping in front of the group in a Peter Pan-stance and holding out his arms. Sam immediately halted, the other two hunters coming to a stop behind him.

“Alright, boys, time to get suited up again to go out. Hold still.” Gabriel closed his eyes tightly, making odd, circular gestures with his hands. “I gotta think about what kind of outfit to put Dean-o in.”

“Oh, hell no,” Dean interjected, stepping in front of Cas and standing beside his brother. “Dude, we just got back from a massive vamp nest. I am taking a shower and watching a bit of Dr. Sexy and then going the fuck to sleep.”

Gabriel opened his eyes only to roll them sarcastically and respond, “Wow, Dean. I thought you of all people would appreciate the point of celebrating tonight.”

“Normally, yeah. But I’m tired and old and I don’t have six wings growing out of my back. I have to sleep, as us humans do.” With that statement out of the way, Dean walked past the archangel, poker faced. After a moment, Cas began to follow, before being halted with the force of Gabriel’s palm against his chest.

“Seriously, Cas? You don’t even have an excuse. This is a must-see, bro. You gotta come.” Sam was nearly pained at the hope glimmering in the shorter of the two’s gaze as his hand curled into a fist gripping onto Cas’s buttoned shirt.

Cas didn’t seem as convinced as he seemed nervous to press onwards. “Maybe…some other time? I’m worried about Dean. He sustained some heavy injuries in the battle, and I am not certain I healed all of them properly.”

“So? He’s not dead! He’ll be okay for an hour or two!”

Despite not being able to see the angel’s expression, Sam could feel the guilt emanating from his frame that remained until Gabriel dropped his gaze to his feet, stepping back and mumbling a short, “Yeah. Whatever. Some other time.” Cas opened his mouth to speak, then quickly closed it and passed by, head down, after getting cast a sharp glance by his older brother.

Raising his head once more with a heavy sigh, the Trickster put his hands in his pockets, eyes brushing over Sam for not longer than a second before he muttered, resigned, “Have a nice night, Sam,” and turned towards the center of town, starting to walk away.

It was a familiar feeling, settling over him just then, and the fact that he’d been so selfish, thinking he was the only one experiencing it in their house, was disgustingly overwhelming in that moment. And it was that feeling that sparked his shout of “Wait! Gabriel!” that caused the man to pause and turn around, looking at him curiously for the reason behind the exclamation.

“I’ll go with you,” Sam volunteered, nodding his head in sincerity. He felt like shit and was exhausted, but that was not a groundbreaking state for him. He’d felt similarly for the past few months, and he’d kept going through those somehow, so he could push through this. It’ll be fun. I promise. The Trickster has said those words, and though he doubted their validity, he was willing to give the guy a shot.

“Really?” Gabriel’s confused question melted away into relief and excitement almost as soon as he’d gotten the words out. “Hell yeah, Samshine! I never had you pegged as being adventurous, but perhaps I’ve misjudged you.” He snapped his fingers and in Sam’s hands appeared an intricately decorated, ornate mask that looked straight out of some millionaire’s private storage room. When the hunter looked up to ask the intended use of the object in his hands, as well as the item’s original location, since the Trickster did have the tendency to permanently borrow from the rich on occasion, he was greeted with the unfamiliar sight of the archangel decked out in completely different clothing, bearing the signature colors of the celebration: purple, gold, green.

The dark green, slimming jacket was a good fit for Gabriel, Sam couldn’t help but notice, swallowing a heavy lump in his throat that had been building since before they’d driven down here and averting his eyes. These thoughts were not anything that should have been going through his head. Three nights, sleepless, had that effect on a person. Regardless, however, Gabriel seemed eager to go, promenading over to him and linking their arms joyfully with a playful smirk.

“Put your mask on, Samoose. It’s the one—okay, one of the two nights out of the year where you don’t have to be yourself. Be happy. Come on. It won’t kill you.”

_You don’t have to be yourself._ Man, what a wonderful fate that would’ve been, for him to be anyone but Sam Winchester. To not be cursed. To not be the vessel for the devil. To not be responsible for starting the apocalypse. To not be responsible for Kevin’s death, or Dean’s life being ruined, or his mother being dead. Wow, what a life, to not be Sam Winchester, even for a night. 

Needless to say, he slipped on the mask, surprised by the gentle texture of the interior, and stunningly good fit to his face. He was about to compare it to having been made for him, before it occurred to him that it probably was. Gabriel was capable of doing the unthinkable, from creating whole new universes, to exploding pagan gods with the snap of his fingers, to crafting unique horror stories for those that dare offend him enough to receive his just desserts. He was a hurricane of a being, wrapped up in this short, cheerful human beside him. To make a Mardi Gras mask, specially fitted for him, likely took about as much effort for him as breathing did for a normal person.

The Trickster grinned, pulling him along then, in the direction he’d been heading before Sam had called for him. The hunter reluctantly followed, a step behind as he was dragged down the street with exuberance. The streetlights illuminated their path as they walked, arm in arm, the archangel proudly chattering on about his past experiences with the celebration over the last hundred years as they did so. Sam wished he had even some degree of that excitement for life anymore. The last few weeks had been nothing but case after case after case, with no end in sight, and that was really all the time, so he wasn’t sure what had changed, unless it was him.

“Hello? Earth to moose? You should be picking up a signal with those antlers of those. Did you hear me?”

“What? Um, no. Sorry.” Sam shook his head, suddenly aware of the fact that he hadn’t been listening up until that point. It wasn’t intentional; more of a side effect from drowning out Dean and Cas’s banter for several weeks. It was becoming insufferable, watching their happiness, and if that didn’t make him an even worse person than he already was, then he was somehow beating out Metatron for most horrid human being of the year. But he couldn’t help it.

He should’ve been happy for them, and in a way, he was, just hadn’t expected to feel this alone when his brother finally got his head dislodged from his ass and admitted his actual feelings to Cas. It wasn’t any excuse to be as bitter as he was though, and he knew it. The bitterness was an unfortunate consequence. Collateral damage he’d been internalizing for years, manifested into self-destructive insomnia and discontented mumblings he kept mostly to himself.

“Get your head out of the stratosphere, kiddo. I know you’re tall, but it’s no excuse to not pay attention to me.” 

Sam snorted. Sometimes the Trickster reminded him more of an exceptionally needy girlfriend than the creature he actually was. He certainly didn’t look like a force to be reckoned with, standing beneath Sam’s 6’4” position with his arms crossed, eyes narrowed in a juvenile dislike. “Sorry,” he apologized, offering a small smile. “I’m been a little out of it all day, honestly.”

“You mean, the past three days,” Gabriel corrected him. He quirked a brow, noticing Sam’s wide-eyed reaction to his comment. “What? Didn’t think I’d notice?” He let go of Sam’s arm and halted nearest a light post, leaning his back into it with a slight smugness.

The hunter sucked in air and pursed his lips, pondering how best to respond. “I…guess not?” He hadn’t ever considered the fact that the archangel didn’t sleep, but then, he didn’t see the guy at night. He never made it any of his business to find out why. Cas and Dean retired to the bedroom to watch Netflix and sleep, respectively, and Ambriel minded her own business during the evening. Sam usually spent most of his night hours tucked away in the library, reading to pass the time. Gabriel disappeared around about 11’o clock every night, when most of their activities had dissipated into grasping at straws or staring aimlessly at a brick wall for answers to cases that were becoming less and less common as the days went by, and he’d gone unmissed for the most part. Sam hadn’t questioned until now where he’d been, but the fact that the archangel had known of his sleeplessness was curious, if he’d left the Bunker like Sam would have assumed.

“Well, guess again. I know most everything that goes on back at home base, even if I’m not always there. Perks of being ‘omniscient’ I s’pose.” He made air quotes with sardonic hand motions, almost as though annoyed with the ability. “You’re not the first hunter I’ve seen lose sleep over their life, but I gotta say, you are definitely the first that I’ve seen that has avoided the activity this consistently. Take a snooze, Sammich. It’ll do your damaged psyche some good. Believe me.”

“Why should I do that? It’s not like you’ve ever slept, so it isn’t as if you’ve got a PhD in the subject.” Sam wasn’t even sure where his spunk was coming from, but the words flowed off his tongue with a surprising amount of abrupt sassiness. 

The Trickster rolled his eyes, unamused with being called out, and leaned forward. “Not my point. I’ve been around the block a time or two. I’ve seen what lies at the end of this road you’re going down, and it is a dead end, believe me.”

The taller of the Winchester brothers blinked, tightening his lips into a flat line. It wasn’t like he didn’t know any of this. It was common sense, really. He needed sleep to survive. But sleeping meant dreaming, and dreaming meant…

“Look, it’s not like I haven’t tried,” he lied cautiously, being careful to maintain steady eye contact with the archangel squinting at him judgmentally. “I just can’t.”

Gabriel’s expression softened in an instant, shifting from a frown to a bright, enthused grin. “Samshine! You should have said so earlier! Sleeping is easy. I can just knock you out and poof! Problem solved.”

The color drained from Sam’s face. He’d not thought his last comment through. “U-uh, right. But what if you’re not here?” He attempted to salvage an excuse from the wreck Gabriel had just made of his lie, likely in vain, because he’d already screwed this up irreparably and he knew it. Cas’s older brother was no human, and he was confident in his abilities to fix human woes, no matter the protests that may accompany it. But Sam couldn’t just fess up to why he wasn’t sleeping. It wasn’t that simple. Their lives were though, right now, and he couldn’t chance screwing up this momentary bliss and slow-down of the family business. His life was beginning to dangerously border on domestic, and he relished it too much to let it go due to this one tiny problem he was having.

Gabe snorted, walking back towards him and lightly punching him in the arm. “Pfft! Is that supposed to be a joke? I’ll always be here, for as long as Cas wants me to be. And even if I do disappear from time to time, just call me and I’ll come. But just you. Not Dean. He’s got his own heavenly harem, between Cas and Michael’s merry band of mercenaries. Just you.”

Just you. It shouldn’t have been a comforting a thought as it was, but Sam felt his heavy heart’s weight lessen somewhat, if not just for a few moments. He’d always felt scorned, if not hated outright by the angels due to the happenstance of being the vessel for the devil, their damnation and eternal enemy. He supposed he couldn’t entirely blame them, but that didn’t mean it stung any less that Dean got the special treatment from the ‘good guys’ when he was the one who’d prayed every day since he was 14, and believed in a God for most of his life. Obviously Cas was on his side, but even they hadn’t started off on the best of terms. The boy with the demon blood. The vessel for the devil. Anna had traveled back in time to stop him from being _born_. He was hated by heaven perhaps even more than Cas was, and for decent reason.

And then there was Gabriel, who understood flaking out on the family business and booking a one-way flight out of dodge. He had rebelled against his Father’s plan just the same as Sam had, if not more intensely. And here was that same angel—no, archangel—that was telling him to call him whenever, wherever, and he’d come. They were two of a kind, and sometimes Sam lost that in Gabriel’s immaturity and his own neurotic demeanor, but it was true. And he appreciated that. 

However, he would’ve appreciated a way out of this situation more. “Right,” Sam chuckled falsely, his smile grimly stretched across his features. “Thanks.”

“No problem! Now, onward to the festivities! Let’s get you good and hammered, and then I’ll give you the knockout of a lifetime, so you won’t have to worry about the hangover.”

Sam grimaced as the archangel turned, bounding forward down the side streets, stopping occasionally to taunt him with riddle-like directions and fun facts about the holiday that were really anything but fun. He followed at a snail’s pace, his heartbeat pounding in his ear as his anxiety spiked. He didn’t want to sleep. He couldn’t. Not in front of an observant archangel with a big mouth and good reason to savor the lull occurring in their lives at the moment. 

He was about to open his mouth and voice some distraction that could perhaps unhinge the Trickster from his goals, but was beat to the punch by the whine of discontent down the narrow street to the left. Rounding the bend, he found the aforementioned being staring into a wide, well-paved road covered in trinkets, multi-colored beads, and a mixture of confetti and feathers, hands at his sides curled into fists. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” He whirled around, narrowing his eyes in agitation and throwing his hands out in an exasperated gesture. “We missed it. The next one is probably tomorrow.” Sam didn’t move, other than to swallow the lump in his throat to no success, and Gabriel angrily strode towards him, shoving his hands in his pockets as he passed. After about a second, Sam turned and followed, unsure of what to say.

“Dean just had to showboat and take down that cluster of escapists to impress my brother, didn’t he? Jeez. They’re both disgusting. Why the hell didn’t they take a honeymoon, again?”

Sam smiled to himself, secretly glad that he wasn’t the only one drowning in a sea of excessive romance on part of his brother and Castiel. “Dean has already seen all of the US and hates flying about as much as he hates transportation via Enochian magic.”

“Right.” Gabriel halted, momentarily flashing an eye roll before spinning around at the middle of an intersection of narrow sidestreets and coming to rest his gaze on Sam once more with a sigh. “Well. Sorry for dragging your sleepy Moose butt out here for nothing, Sammich. Maybe we can go tomorrow.”

“It’s alright.” He meant it. He hadn’t wanted to go back to the hotel and sleep. Not really. Not now either, but it seemed inevitable at this point, since there was no parade and he’d arouse suspicion from the Trickster if he diverged and snuck off to the library to occupy his time with coffee and late night reading, especially since Gabriel knew how long he’d been awake. 

“Nah. It’s not. But I tell you what. Let’s go back to the hotel and knock out those eyebags of yours with some sleep.” 

Sam should have been prepared for what came next. He should have, upon seeing the archangel raise his hand and twist his fingers into a snapping position, and yet, he didn’t expect the entire world to wrap itself around his surroundings in a swirl of color and whooshing before he dropped on a cushy surface, eyes tightly shut from the inertial nausea of it all. Cautiously, he clenched his fists over the fabric, then opened his gaze to a warm, dimly lit ceiling, recognizing the bumpy surface from his hotel room. Sitting up on the bed, he blinked a few times, adjusting his eyes to the lighting and taking in the sight of the average, fairly modern furniture that accompanied it, as well as the archangel standing by the bathroom and stretching his limbs like a cat who’d just gotten up from a long nap. 

While he was grateful to not have to force his body to continue to function on the walk back from where the festival was supposed to be, this majorly decreased the amount of time he had to distract Gabriel from making him sleep. And since he’d had no great ideas thus far, that left him with few options to start a conversation and divert the Trickster’s attention. The Trickster, who was already looking in his direction with an unreadable set of whiskey-colored eyes, and an ambiguous half-smile.

“Tired yet, Sammich?”

You have no idea, Sam moaned internally. But it didn’t matter. He would not ruin the peace for this inconvenience he was having. Even if the inconvenience cost him his energy and sanity. It wasn’t worth it, spoiling what they had going on right now. The mundane nature of it all was all he’d ever wanted, and it was the closest he’d had to normal since leaving Stanford all those years ago. He would not. He couldn’t.

He shook his head, averting his own eyes to the door, painted a lovely ebony black, with the fire escape instructions on the door, and the door tag secured around the handle, ‘maid service requested’ side facing him. “N-not really. I’m still coming down from the adrenaline rush of that hunt earlier. I think I’m gonna stay awake and read a little bit. Maybe have a drink.”

“You’re a horrible liar, you know.” 

He tried not to visibly flinch, but did so involuntarily. Those eyes were still on him, but not as innocently as before. Now they were pressing, hard, insistent. He avoided them for a few seconds, before hesitantly making eye contact with an unamused Gabe, who approached him with his head held high appraisingly. Sam scooted back on the bed, alarmed when the Trickster climbed on the comforter himself, folding his legs crisscross and laying his hands in his lap. “W-what?” Sam stammered, knowing the effort was pointless. This guy fibbed his identity for a living for centuries. The fact that he’d thought he could pull a fast one on him was pathetic. 

“You. You’re an awful liar. You could totally sleep if you wanted to, and yet, you don’t. So, Sam. You know I gotta ask. What’s with the lack of self-care? Are you trying to win a Guinness World Record?”

The hunter let his eyes drop once more, this time to his own lap, where he brushed his fingers over one another briefly, hypersensitive to the rough patches on his hands from handling weapons and countless books. He couldn’t avoid the issue like this. Lying. It was pointless, trying to fake out the Trickster. He’d gotten the drop on them more often than any other being ever had, be they demons or otherwise. He couldn’t lie anymore. But maybe he could at least do damage control.

“You have to promise not to tell Dean or Cas,” he muttered softly. 

He received a perplexed eyebrow motion in response. “What is this? A sleepover? Are we going to steal some alcohol from a locked cabinet in your parents’ kitchen and talk about boys and do each other’s hair? No. I’m not doing that. Your family’s habit of keeping secrets is precisely what’s caused all of your problems since your parents first got hitched.”

“Gabe, please,” he pleaded. “Look, Dean is just going to worry, and things have been going so well for him and for Cas. I don’t want to screw that up.”

The scrutinizing glare remained on him a few seconds more before dissipating into exasperation, accompanying a heavy sigh and deadpan. “I guess that’s fair. But I’m still not making any promises I can’t keep, kiddo. Not until I know how severe the problem is.”

“It’s…” He had issues getting the words to come off of his tongue. He’d never really thought about phrasing the problem out loud before. The concept had barely occurred to him before being thrown out because he didn’t want to rock the boat gently treading this precarious sea that was their lives. And it hadn’t been a long-lasting issue either. It had only started a few weeks ago, after Cas and Dean’s wedding, and he thought perhaps, mistakenly, that they were just temporary night terrors, brought on by some triggered reaction to something he’d seen recently. 

They were not.

“It’s…Lucifer…” he finished softly. “I’ve been…having dreams again, and he’s just there. Lingering. Laughing in my ear. Cackling, even. And all I can remember is the Cage and how it felt to be his plaything, all over again. I’ve always got an angel blade on me, but I freeze up as soon as I hear his voice. It’s…paralyzing, almost. And as he gets closer, to the point where I can literally feel my insides bubbling within my chest…the dream fades out, and I wake up in a cold sweat, only to repeat it again the next time I close my eyes. So that’s why I’ve not been sleeping. Going to bed isn’t restful, and if I can avoid seeing Lucifer, I am gonna choose that road rather than the alternative."

Sam’s gaze flickered back to Gabe’s after a few moments passed, and he let the statement settle down in the cracks between them, but the archangel’s expression was masked under a guarded set of honey-tinged eyes and ever so slightly furrowed brows.

“…Lucifer, huh?” He questioned, dropping his attention to his hands, running fingertips against the flesh with an odd slowness atypical of him. When he looked back up, the absence of emotion was gone from his face, replaced with a resolute, powerful confidence. It was a polar difference, and Sam had to wonder for a moment which guise was his true face, if either of them were. “Well. Fret not, Sammich. He can’t hurt you again, and he won’t. A), because he’s in a glass box of emotion, screaming his lungs out in his own personal corner of hell and B), because I won’t let him, over my once-dead body. You’re safe with me, kiddo. Never again will you have to be roommates with my lunatic sibling.”

The hunter almost wanted to laugh, but settled for a barely concealed lie of smile and a shake of the head. As if it were that easy. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate the gesture of behalf of the archangel, but trying and doing were two separate things, and he was clueless as to how to stop this newfound problem of his, or even why it was happening. He wasn’t suffering from lack of reassurance. He was suffering from lack of knowledge about the situation, and the lack of sleep caused from his determination not to close his eyes in fear that he would open them to the sound of _his_ voice, hooting and hollering with a jovial tone Sam’s name. Hearing Lucifer again could mean nothing good for them, or humanity. Things had been too calm recently. He should’ve known better than to stake his bets on the continued peace they’d been experiencing. What did this mean? These nightmares? Was he coming back? Or was he already back, gathering power, and taunting Sam through dreamland out of convenience?

He didn’t want to say anything though. Didn’t want to spoil the rare happiness Dean was having. Didn’t want to ruin Cas’s either. Gabriel, truly, was the only one of the house besides him who wasn’t floating on cloud nine, which was an odd thought, but true regardless. He could tell in the gaps between the Trickster’s sentences, and the distant looks he would sometimes lapse into when he thought no one was paying him attention: he wasn’t all that thrilled either. But this…this thing with Lucifer…it wasn’t a secret either one of them should have had to keep. 

Their lives should’ve been different than this. Sam was so very tired of saving the world in a way. It wasn’t the road, or Dean’s repetitive, ancient playlists, or Cas’s deadpan losing its humor either. It was the drama and the dying and the death that followed them everywhere they went. Gabe had a point. Their story was the same. It was a repeated verse, with the same chords underlying the words that were reiterated again and again. The family business had become nearly unrecognizable in terms of how their father described it so many years past. It had somehow used to be much simpler than this.

Fate. Duty. Stakes. Blood.

It was redundant.

“What? Not convinced?” Gabriel countered, intriguingly light-hearted in his tone when he reached out and placed a hand on Sam’s knee, jolting the hunter from his haze. The Trickster had quirked a brow without losing that childish smirk that seemed his default expression. “Okay. I’ll give you that I didn’t look all that impressive back there at Hotel Hell when my older bro gave me a good shiv and left me for dead, but come on! This is all in your head, kid, and no one is better at mind games than me. Consider Luci as good as evicted. Hold still.”

“N-no.” Sam was impressed with his own reflexes as the archangel lifted his hand to place it against the hunter’s forehead before being intercepted by Sam’s own. The look he got in return was a mixture of terrifying and confused as Gabriel jerked his hand back, ready to go on a tangent about the hunter’s reluctance to accept help. Unfortunately, he did not get the chance before Sam had continued, “I-I don’t know what they mean. Maybe they’re important. Maybe God is trying to tell me something, or some other celestial force. Look, they can’t mean anything good alright? But if they mean something, anything at all, and it ends up causing all hell to break loose, then that’s on my head, and I’d rather not chance it. I can handle this, okay? I-I don’t need help. Thank you, but I’m okay.”

“You haven’t slept for three days, Sam,” Gabe growled. The Trickster’s playfulness had dissipated into frustration that was slowly beginning to bloom into ire with each passing second. “Let me in. I’ll suss out whether or not there is a backbone to this issue, or you’re just having some depression-related PTSD.” 

“Depression? What are y—“

Gabriel waved him off. “Shh. Hush up, Moose. Forget I said anything.” He shook his head, exasperated. “Sometimes it escapes my mind that you all operate in denial, 24/7.” Before the Winchester could protest, a hand had made contact with his cheek, slowly brushing back stray pieces of hair hanging loose in front of his face to rest against his forehead. It was warmer than Sam had imagined it would be, considering the archangel didn’t have working organs or any biological processes going on inside his human vessel that would have given him an actual body temperature. He instantly felt a rush tingle down his flesh, like little spiders dancing pirouettes from his shoulders downward, followed by an absolute, resolute calming force. He exhaled immediately, and with it, several tons of guilt, loneliness and misery seemed to dissolve into the atmosphere. His entire being felt lighter, somehow.

He closed his eyes to the soft, gentle whisper in his mind. He wanted to give in so badly, but…

_Take a load off for a few hours, kid. You deserve it._

He resisted the urge. Gabriel could handle it…right? Sam felt his very being, tethered to his soul, being tugged in the direction of darkness. In the direction of sleep. He wanted to go. His body ached, begging for a break, for a small reprieve from the hell he’d been suffering the past few days.

Seriously.

…

…….

“Okay,” he heard himself say.

And like that, everything seemed to crumble into pieces, fading away around him as he descended into a slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This semester is kicking my ass. But I got some good news. I'll be at school for the summer again, working, so I'll have time to update again! Now unfortunately, that doesn't start until May. Until then, updating may or may not be in the cards. It just depends. Regardless, I'm looking forward to the free time so I can get back to doing what I love rather than what is supposed to get me a job in the sad, dystopian future of corporate America. Until next time, folks! Thank you for the kudos and reviews! <3


	3. Be Still

He’d forgotten what her smile looked like. Almost twelve years of not seeing it had that effect on a person. His fondest memories had long been shoved under a rug by his problems, which seemed to pile up in towers around the domicile of his mind in the time elapsed since. The image of her had faded long ago from his conscious, into some romanticized memory that only existed in burned photographs and deleted flip-phone pictures. 

But there she was, Jess, looking as radiant as the last time he’d seen her alive. She looked older than he recalled however, and he wondered for a second if this wasn’t a hallucination of some kind, where Lucifer was trying to torment him. Jess bore the same marks of age that he had. The telltale strands of gray tangled within curls of blonde. The weathering of time through the eyes. Even branches of crow’s feet had perched themselves at the edges, crinkling as she smiled at him from across the room. 

It didn’t seem like Lucifer’s level of detail. He wasn’t methodical in his tricks. He didn’t have to be, since his power seemed to do the intimidation for him. His illusions were usually more...ambient. This felt more like a prank by the Trickster, but Gabriel wasn’t this cruel. Not anymore, at least. Sam Winchester took a gulp, blinking a few times to ensure that his vision was working properly. 

No change.

This was most certainly a trick. Lucifer...

“Not quite.” He jumped at the noise, flinching before he whirled around to see a familiar face behind him. Gabriel was out of costume, dressed in his usual army green and disruptively colored flannel, leaning against the wall, which was blank and unrecognizable, much like the room they stood in. Sam opened his mouth but was unable to find the words he needed in time to phrase an inquiry before the archangel continued, sighing.

“This isn’t my brother’s handiwork. At least, not that brother’s.” He paused briefly, shifting his eyes from Sam’s deer-in-the-headlights gaze over to the picture-perfect fast forward of Jess, standing in the corner opposite them. “Is that her?” he inquired, voice softer, with less flatness than before. He almost sounded sympathetic, despite not being able to meet the hunter’s eyes.

“Yeah,” Sam breathed, the sound barely coming out as anything other than a breathy exhale. Some part of him, dumb though it was, wanted this to be true. It was the part of humanity that djinns relied on for sustenance, and the part of himself that he’d been feeling the most recently out of everything. Sadness. Emptiness. The lack of companionship only bothered him when he had to see others achieve it. And lately that was all he’d seen, thanks to Cas and Dean.

“She’s beautiful. Sorry for your loss, Samsquatch.”

“Thanks.” He wanted to say that Gabriel was 12 years short of that apology being relevant, and forever removed from needing to make a statement at all, just out of spite for the situation, but bit his tongue. He had no idea how the archangel felt about relationships, or love for that matter, but regardless, he wasn’t to blame for the empty void sitting inside of him, weighing him down with bitterness and anxiety. They were words better spent elsewhere.

“It wouldn’t hurt as much if they didn’t start like this,” he admitted, the sentence trailing off in volume as he spoke, unable to break the eye contact he was sharing with the girl across the room for fear of her disappearing. 

“I know. But don’t worry. Consider it done after this. When I find out who is responsible, you can rest easy and dream-free, and fortunately, every angel leaves behind a bit of a calling card in work like this. You just have to find it.”

With that, Gabe sprung forward from his lax position against the wall and waltzed past the hunter, running a set of slender fingers across the air in a specific motion. Then, without a pause, he muttered a few words gruffly beneath his breath, indistinguishable to Sam, but if he had to take a guess, were likely Enochian. He proceeded to stand there, idle, for a few moments, before suddenly turning back towards the younger Winchester. “Excuse me. This’ll just take a second.” 

With a lift of his hand and a snap of his fingers then, Sam had blinked, and come face to face yet again with the bumpy, uninviting ceiling of his hotel room. His body no longer ached as it had following their walk down to the parade, but instead had been replaced with a numbness he was neither accustomed to nor enjoyed for a couple seconds, before dissipating into a relaxed, fatigued state. Sitting up slowly, he searched the room for signs of Gabriel, but found none, excluding the mask that he’d crafted earlier for the hunter sitting on a table nearest the window, then resorted to crossing his legs and placing his hands limply in his lap. 

He questioned whether or not what had just happened had happened at all, and whether or not this reality he was experiencing was even real, or whether or not he was simply trapped in some horrible, psychological inception of a dream, the settings bundled together like matryoshka dolls of nightmares occurring within one another simultaneously. His hands clenched over top of one another, raking skin against skin as he rubbed them rhythmically together, trying to focus on his own breathing and calm down. The fear hadn’t left. Everyday that he’d woken up to something he once loved for the past few weeks, it had been there, waiting for him to close his eyes and travel yet again to the personal hell designed for him by…apparently not the devil, according to Gabriel. Assuming Gabriel was even real. 

He hardly ever was, in past experiences. Hypocrite. Criticizing the Winchesters’ method of coping when his was to tuck tail and run away when their noses were upturned in the mistaken pride of catching him. He was incredibly short-sighted, that guy. What nerve, to call Sam’s family messed up. His family was the one that literally spawned Satan. 

“I need a drink.”

Again, with the abrupt entrances. The mattress seemed to bounce in response to the Trickster dropping in and plopping himself down in the middle of his, splaying his arms and legs out with an agonized groan. The hunter hesitated to respond, but for some reason, the foremost question on his mind had to do with why the archangel would bother drinking. Cas had mentioned before to him that archangels weren’t capable of becoming inebriated, no matter their consumption levels, so what was the point? 

He didn’t want to think about the dream. About Jess. Sam shifted slightly more to the side on the bed, allowing the Trickster to further spread his arms and legs as he turned his head to partially catch sight of the hunter’s blank face. “You’re good to go, kiddo. No more nightmares.”

“Wait. What did you do?” 

“Nothing I’m proud of. Does this place by any chance have a minibar?” New energy seemed to zip through Gabriel’s veins as he leaped off the bed, semi-frantically looking around the room for a minifridge hopefully filled with goodies. Sam watched on, silent for a few seconds before interrupting. 

“Gabe. What did you do?”

“I killed him,” the archangel responded, sounding as though speaking into a tunnel as he finally located the fridge and pried the door open to stick his face inside, peering at his options. Sam knit his brows together, certain he had heard him wrong. Him? Who was him? It couldn’t have been Lucifer, surely. Gabe had not only alluded to this not being his handiwork, but also, the last time that the two had gone head-to-head, Gabriel’s wings had become immortalized in the woodwork of a hotel for Pagan gods, a tombstone to his failed illusions and legacy of lies. Sam sincerely doubted his ability to handle Lucifer with such ease this time around, despite the angel’s increased experience with hunting.

“Killed who?” The hunter pressed, beginning to untangle his limbs from their position and stand up. Gabe’s face emerged from the white expanse of the fridge a second later, with two beer bottles threaded between his fingers in one hand. He turned, avoiding Sam’s gaze as he flicked one in his direction, which the Winchester took with wariness, popping the cap off and waiting for a response.

Gabriel sighed. “The dickhead angel who was screwing with you. Didn’t catch his name. Dude tried to stab me as soon as I summoned him.” 

Well, that was unsurprising for several reasons, but Sam found himself caught on the identity of his terrorizer more than anything. The amount of detail placed into that illusion was painstaking. It surpassed even Gabriel’s in its craft. She didn’t just look like Jess, or sound the same. Her gestures, and body language, they were spot-on. Whoever had been messing with him was an expert, and he had no idea why they would bother unless it was a personal grudge.

“So,” he began unsurely, “He didn’t happen to mention why he was doing what he was?”

“Nope. Wouldn’t talk.” Gabriel took a long swig from his bottle, before slamming it down on top of the mini-fridge and wiping his mouth. “But, if I had to take a guess, I would say he was working for someone else who didn’t want to get their hands dirty.”

“That’s comforting,” Sam deadpanned miserably. “I wonder who I pissed off this time. It’s not like there is any shortage of possibilities.” He gazed melancholically into his drink, not quite ready to take a sip. Gabe seemed nonplussed by his lack of enthusiasm or confidence, flopping onto the couch with a swift motion and then quirking a brow at him with an almost lazy slowness. 

“Not wrong. But worry not, Samoose. No one can get you tonight, so I implore you to crack open that cold one and celebrate this small victory.”

Sam was silent, pursing his lips as he continued to stare pensively into the brown liquid swishing around in the bottle clutched between his fingers and palm. It wasn’t a bad suggestion, but his brain didn’t function like that. Someone was out to get him. To kill him, foreseeably, or perhaps worse, knowing how their lives tended to operate. He wasn’t going to genuinely rest until he knew more than just the fact that this guy or gal or whomever didn’t think him worthy of torture in person. He needed a name. A face. Even a race at this point. What were they dealing with? Demon? Angel? Knight of Hell? Archangel?

He most certainly did not have the kind of resilient ignorance that Gabriel was choosing to call confidence. He was worried as hell. If he hadn’t been before, he definitely was now. Somehow, he knew even less than what little information he began the situation with.

The Trickster snapped his fingers, causing the hunter to jolt out of his musings and nearly flinch, expecting the world to shift around him at the sound, but instead, he was greeted with a melodramatic, heaving sigh, followed by the words, “Please stop overthinking. You have the rest of your very long, healthy life to worry, Sam. A) Because you aren’t going to experience cirrhosis of the liver like your brother and B) because I’m going to protect your dumb ass, no matter who has it out for you. You’re family to Cas, and that makes you family to me.” 

That would have been a much more comforting statement if Gabriel’s past hadn’t included skipping out on his heavenly siblings to take a nosedive out of the clouds and land smack dab in the middle of some strip club in Nevada. Not that the angel hadn’t proven his worth to the brothers. He was invaluable on hunts, despite being a smartass, and he had turned impossible situations into reasonably easy circumstances to conquer with the amount of power he held as an archangel. He was, beyond a doubt, incredibly powerful, but he was also incredibly juvenile, and untrustworthy, and from there stemmed the anxieties Sam was experiencing about the situation.

Still, he had to be forgiving. He’d made plenty of mistakes in his own past. And Gabriel had more than redeemed himself to Castiel and the brothers, so Sam swallowed his poorly concealed worry and took a long gulp from the bottle in his hand, walking over and taking a seat beside the archangel on the couch. “Thanks,” he mumbled, rubbing at his eyes. He wasn’t so tired after regaining consciousness. Everytime he blinked, he saw her face again, which made it equal parts difficult and tempting to close his eyes.

What he would give to go back to those days. To have a normal life, where he was Sam Anything-But-Winchester. In a perfect world, that was who he was, changing a few details. His mother was alive and well, and they had dinner every other weekend, and his father hadn’t turned to the bottle rather than the mechanic business during his childhood. Sam Anything-But-Winchester had attended Stanford University School of Law and married Jessica Moore and moved to the suburbs, a few blocks down from his brother, Dean, who had never been to hell or trapped in Purgatory for an extended period of time. It was a stellar existence, being Sam Anything-But-Winchester. No scars down his hands or back, permanent imprints of the horrors he’d experienced, or gaping fissures in his soul, torn apart and then taped back together by Death. No unholy encounters with the King of Hell or unpleasant archangels. Sam Anything-But-Winchester was still who he wanted to be.

But Sam Winchester, the man slumped against the backbone of the couch in a mediocre hotel in New Orleans, holding a cheap beer and casting occasional glances to his left at the archangel curled up beside him, legs crunched against his chest by lack of space, wasn’t him. He never could be. The opportunity didn’t exist in this world. He’d tried to pry himself out from this life with claws dug into the moist earth, but it was futile. Always, some force yanked at his legs and pulled him back in before slithering once more into the shadows. There was no escape from hunting. It seemed to be more of a family curse than a family business, contrary to Dean’s description of their jobs.

A set of legs extended in front of him, throwing themselves across his lap to rest their feet against the armrest of the sofa. He threw the archangel an annoyed glance, quickly met with crinkled, mischievous eyes to accompany that shit-eating grin the guy often wore. “I was here first,” Gabe stated innocently, snuggling into a comfy position.

Sam rolled his eyes. He felt often as though he were hanging out with an overgrown 5-year-old rather than a faux Pagan god. Laying his arms over the Trickster’s legs, he sighed, looking around the room for some kind of distraction from mulling over the image burned into his eyelids. Taking yet another long drink from the bottle, he inquired without thinking, “Do you ever miss home?”

A lump formed in his throat as soon as the words came out. He was greeted with the immediate, weighty silence blanketing the room as he rethought his entire train of thought, too mortified to even open his mouth. Gabriel was, despite being loud, obnoxious, and every other extroverted word he could think of off the top of his head, an extremely private angel when it came to his past. While Cas was more than eager to share stories of his time in the garrison and their missions as they came to preside over human history, Gabriel kept his memories guarded from the public like a steely, drab, high-security prison. 

It wasn’t the kind of topic he should’ve brought up out of the blue. Thinking back to the earlier, and that sinking feeling he would either say yes to Mardi Gras or get Nair in his shampoo, Sam was starting to believe that perhaps he deserved the latter. He did enjoy Gabriel’s company, regardless of whether or not he acted like it, and this outburst was almost guaranteed to spur the archangel’s disappearance for a couple of hours, if not days considering how the guy reacted to things sometimes. It was rude, even if Sam did...maybe genuinely wonder.

“Depends. When?”

He nearly got whiplash turning his head to catch the gaze of the Trickster pensively looking back at him with whiskey-colored eyes. As silence settled between them, Sam still in numb shock, he abruptly remembered that he had been asked to clarify. “U-uh. In general, I guess. Sorry. I know you don’t like talking about it. Just forget it.”

“In general, huh? Hm.” He took a second to ponder, ignoring the entirety of the last part of Sam’s statement, then replied, not skipping a beat, “Not really. It got pretty bad towards the end. And, you know, thinking back on it, my brothers were always kind of shitheads. When we got our personalized celestial weapons from Dad, Raphael stole Lucifer’s because he said Lucifer had stabbed him with it, then Michael had blamed me, and then next thing you know, I was the one who got stuck with a musical paperweight as a weapon.” He sighed, rubbing at his temples, as though incensed by the memory. “Not that it was all bad. This may come as a surprise, so stay seated, but Lucifer is extremely ticklish around his ribcage and on his ankles.”

“What?” Sam felt confident that he hadn’t heard him right. Had he just said that the Devil was ticklish? The Devil. Lucifer. The guy who had exploded Cas with a snap of his fingers.

Ticklish?

“Did I stutter? Believe it, Samsquatch. Satan himself, ruler of all evils, is ticklish. And I, the favorite punching bag of my brothers, was the first one to discover this, and draw attention to it. To this day, I’m pretty sure that’s why he knifed me in that hotel.” Gabe made a gutting motion with his hand, smirk evident on his face.

Sam laughed. “Maybe. But didn’t you call him a bag of dicks, or something too? It was probably a combination of things.”

“Probably. But that’s me. I never sucked up to anyone back home. I thought the family business was horrible. We were all out to get one another, cutting throats to try and be Dad’s favorite. I didn’t even really participate, to tell you the truth. I guess I kind of just always knew I wouldn’t measure up to my brothers.”

He said it with nonchalance, but it didn’t quell the sympathy stirring in the hunter’s chest. Dean called him a bleeding heart, and he might’ve been right, but Sam preferred to think he was just very empathetic and understanding to the whims and emotions of others. He also, in this particular situation, understood perfectly what it was like to be running away from family destiny. Like Gabriel had taken a bullet train out of heaven, Sam had also fled his father’s overly protective custody, which felt more like a prison than it did a home, even with Dean trying to play roles as both caretaker and older brother from the time he was no older than five. He understood completely the feeling of not belonging, and the desire to become something else. He’d lived it. And like Gabriel, he’d spent most of his life trying to run away from it.

But he was forever caught beneath the undertow. It was too late to redefine who he was now. Throw on a mask, a new face, new name, and new backstory for a small town he’d never visited in all his time hunting. There wasn’t much to do aside from work a dead-end, minimum wage job with barely enough pay to live off ramen noodles and attempt to find love that wouldn’t die at the soonest contact with him. He was genuinely starting to believe that he was supposed to be alone at this point, with all the luck he’d had thus far. 

Without thinking much of it, he placed his hands on the Trickster’s knees, gentle but firm and looked at him with resolve. “If it’s any consolation, you’re definitely my favorite out of your brothers.”

Gabriel chuckled, sitting up and finishing off his bottle before responding, “Thanks, Samoose. To be fair though, the bar was pretty low.” He pulled his legs out from underneath Sam’s touch, curling them up against his chest after he turned, facing the bed, just as Sam was positioned. 

“You’re not wrong.”

Sam proceeded to down the rest of his own bottle before glancing at the window, where the curtains rippled slightly along the ground, swayed by the humming wind of the air conditioner. Flickers of moonlight peeked out now and again before once more sheathing themselves under thick, red drapes. It was, truly, a beautiful night for February. The skies were clear. The temperatures weren’t too cold. The air had felt crisp and refreshing against his face on their walk earlier, especially after being submerged for weeks at the Bunker in the haze of post-marital bliss left behind by Dean and Cas. 

He felt okay for the first time in a long time.

“I meant it though. Seriously. You’re pretty cool, Gabe, and not just by angel standards.”

“Oh, stow it with the flattery, Moose,” Gabriel interrupted him before he could continue, cocking his head to the side with an intrigued motion. “You had me at the word ‘I.’ But seriously, what’s with the compliments? Trying to get on the nice list for Christmas?”

“Nothing! I’m being 100% genuine here. You care about Cas a lot, and you took care of him when Dean and I dropped the ball and that means a lot to me. Because of you, he came home and stayed, and now Dean is happier than I’ve seen him in my lifetime so far. I owe you so much. We, actually, owe you so much. Thanks for that.”

“Shut up, Sam. I mean it.” The Trickster warned, elbowing him playfully before reaching over top of hunter’s arm and poking his cheek. “Don’t thank me, alright? Being decent isn’t something I deserve to be thanked for. Aside from that, Cassie is my bro. I’ve been wanting to make it up to him for years. He deserves it, you know?”

“He does,” Sam agreed, eyelids heavy. He was beginning to feel the lack of sleep he’d been suffering from for the past couple days. It was probably something to do with the dim lighting of the room, and the security of knowing he was safe next to the archangel curled up on the couch, sticking his feet out and humming a White Stripes song, but he didn’t feel quite so ill then at the prospect of closing his eyes.

And so, each blink became slower, and slower, as Gabriel began to speak, and the words became muddled and unclear, hazy, the further he went on, until he finally must have noticed Sam’s exhausted state, leaning over and whispering, “Good night, Moose,” as Sam finally dozed off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @s13: pls stop hurting my boy. But seriously. The things I have planned for this fic might honestly make the Denial Twist look like a romantic comedy. Whoops. Can't help it. There's something really beautiful about tragedy, and although I am in equal parts enraged and intrigued by the way it follows the Winchesters, I find it an incredibly accurate, compelling plot device. That's your clue for the future. By the way, a s/o to all the lovely kudos I've received for this story: y'all give me life, liberty and love and for that, you deserve 12 dozen dethorned roses each, unless of course you are allergic, in which case, you deserve something of equal beauty and elegance that you are not allergic to.


	4. The Rising Tide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabe is a liar. Sam is skeptical. Dean is a dork. And Cas really wants the receptionist to stop looking at him like that.

It was the sound of an especially loud car door slamming shut that woke Sam abruptly from his slumber the following morning. As he blinked with bleary eyes, attempting to adjust his vision to the room, he became suddenly aware of there being a substantial, although not heavy weight against his right arm when he felt the position of it shift, complete with light breathing. Glancing over, he found the unexpected sight of an archangel curled up against him, face nuzzled against his shoulder, brilliantly hazel eyes closed to the world around them. He seemed at peace, which was more than could be said for either of their demeanors as of late, gently breathing warm air against the fabric of Sam’s shirt, face a mask of utter calm.

It made the hunter not want to disturb him, but that was a difficult feat, considering that, glancing at the clock, they were about due to check out of the hotel, and Dean would start pounding on the door impatiently at any given moment, knowing him. Thus, Sam made a very careful attempt to move, slowly shifting in the hopes that perhaps he not disrupt the slumber of the being next to him, and was surprised to find that he was able to completely get up, provided that he grabbed a pillow from beside the sofa, and used his jacket to gingerly prop it up against the Trickster’s head.

He sighed then, taking in the image once more, almost immortalizing it in his mind for sake of how strange it was, not just that an archangel, a being that required virtually no sustenance or rest of any kind to survive was sleeping, but that Gabriel, the extremely energetic, enigmatic and elusively playful pagan God imitator of an archangel, had ended up sleeping next to him, almost leaning into his frame as though he enjoyed the company. He then turned, making to pack up his belongings into the black, ratty suitcase he’d brought with him for years since getting it from a Goodwill in Scottsdale. It was an easy task, bundling his few possessions he brought with him on hunts back into order, unlike Dean, who overpacked for no real reason at all, considering he was a heathen who left his clothes haphazardly strewn everywhere and ended up wearing the same damn thing everyday as a result. 

He’d gotten significantly better at being neat since marrying Cas, but that could’ve been the angel picking up after him, in all honesty. Sam figured it was likely the latter, since Dean was stubborn as hell, always had been, and generally refused to alter his behaviors for even the greatest and most convincing of reasons. Still, he appreciated the organization, whether it be his brother’s or the angel’s. It made the entire checking out process greatly accelerated, and thus, helped them avoid the unnecessary drama of dealing with testy hotel employees demanding they leave so that their room could be cleaned for the next guests.

It took only about ten minutes for Sam to finish gathering his things and zipping them up in his luggage, and only fifteen for him to hop in the shower and brush his teeth before sealing those objects as well in his traveling bag. In total, about a half an hour had passed when he next checked on the Trickster, who was, interestingly enough, still zonked out on the couch when it came time for Sam to most definitely wake him, so that he wouldn’t have to suffer Dean’s rude wake-up-call of knock. He knelt down before the angel, wondering vaguely what in the world Gabriel’s wings looked like, and how the hell they functioned in the position he was in, facing outward on the couch with them presumably tucked painfully behind him against the harsh backboard of the sofa. He’d made the inquiry of Castiel once, asking just about their color, as those apparently differed per angel, but his brother-in-law had been quiet, merely stating that it wasn’t his place to say. 

Gabriel was absurdly private for someone who’d literally acted in a porno, particularly about any matters concerning heaven, hell, or, evidently, his wings, which Sam just couldn’t help but think were beautiful. The archangels, as described by most literature, were by far the most stunning of their brethren, mostly due to their added sets of wings, and the spans and colors within them. There were also, of course, descriptions of their true forms, which Sam was also intrigued by, but knew he was of no position to confirm, seeing as they could not be perceived by humans, so that left him reflecting mainly on what he couldn’t see from the archangel sleeping peacefully on the couch.

“Hey,” he whispered softly, tentatively nudging the man’s shoulder. The reaction he received in response was a groan, and a lackluster attempt to turn and bury his face into the pillow Sam had set out, before the hunter intervened, continuing, “Hey. Gabe. It’s time to get up. Come on.”

“No. Five more minutes.” The sound was muffled into a pillow, and sounded both so childish and yet also so Gabriel that Sam fought a laugh.

“You can sleep in the car.”

Gabriel raised his head from the pillow, lips set in a discontented frown as he glared at the hunter with narrow eyes. “Sleep? With your brother driving? Yeah, I don’t think so.”

Sam smiled toothlessly. He had a point, Gabriel. Dean’s driving was enough to give those unaccustomed to its speed and erraticism either a headache or a good upchuck, depending on the person. Sleeping usually wasn’t in the cards, unless you were an experienced passenger, which Gabriel was not.

Presently, the Trickster dropped a heavy sigh and rolled effortlessly off the couch, stretching his limbs with a couple satisfied pops before turning to Sam and offering his trademark grin. “Did you sleep well, Samsquatch?”

“Uh, yeah, actually,” Sam voiced, realizing for the first time since he’d woken up that this was first time he’d actually woken up in about three days, and the first time he’d really slept in about several weeks. He nodded.

“Good!” replied the Trickster with glee. “Now you have no excuse to avoid coming to the Mardi Gras parade with me!” 

Ah. He did have him there. Self-serving jackass. At that moment, before Sam could respond, they were interrupted by a familiar, blunt knock at the door. “Sam! You up? Check-out is in ten.”

“Yeah, hold on.” Avoiding the whiskey-toned eyes of the angel, he walked over to the door and opened it, revealing a travel-ready Dean, who seemed to be well-rested and happier than he’d been in ten years. His brother’s eyes traveled first over him, then jumped to the other being in the room, narrowing slightly before letting up.

“You ready?” 

Sam nodded in a huff, anxious to leave before things became awkward. Months may have passed since Gabriel had moved in with them, dropping unexpectedly heavy bags down on the kitchen table at his entrance, but Dean’s suspicion and distrust of the archangel had seen hardly any change in the time elapsed. He remained stubbornly distant and closed off concerning Gabriel’s acceptance into the Bunker, particularly when hunting. One could’ve easily written it off as simply being part of his personality, the gradual warm-up he took getting used to a new presence in their lives, but Sam knew better. Gabriel had a track record, one that usually ended with pain at their expense, so it was well warranted, the caution Dean exercised regarding the guy. 

“Uh? Hello? Guys? Mardi Gras?” The light-haired man inquired as Sam passed through the doorway without so much as a glance in his direction. The taller of the two was joined moments later by his presence in the hallway, power-walking to keep up with his stride. “Don’t ignore me! We have to go to the parade, Sam. Come on.”

The hunter didn’t even need to look to know that the archangel was throwing puppy eyes in his direction, laying the pity on thick in a desperate, albeit sad attempt to have his way. It was sometimes incorrigibly annoying that God had never disciplined his children, or told them no, especially when they were out in a convenience store and Gabe tried to sell one of them on purchasing the entire store supply of scratch-off lottery tickets for shits and giggles, but today, Sam couldn’t even feign the emotion in front of the guy. Granted, they were up to their ears in work, and taking a day would just set them back further in the gigantic backlog of cases Sam had unearthed back home in fruitless effort to get away from Dean and Cas, even if they could afford it, but he didn’t really want to leave Gabriel hanging. The guy had done him an immense favor the other evening, and Sam wasn’t stupid enough to think that Gabe had been having the time of his life either the past couple weeks, thanks to Dean and Cas. Still, in that same token, the younger Winchester wanted a bit of a break. And yeah, they were in a vacation destination spot for some tourists, but...

...Mardi Gras with the Trickster didn’t likely equal a relaxing experience. “Saaaaaam,” he had resorted to whining, an ear-splitting, painfully agitating noise that grated on the taller Winchester’s patience to the point of nearly snapping it entirely. “I know you can hear me, Moose, so you might as well speak up. Mardi Gras parade. Today. You owe me.”

“How do you figure that?” Sam asked, if only to stall. There was something off about the tonality of Gabriel’s voice as he’d spoken, and he was making his best try to unravel the matter of what that was exactly as he awaited the sassy explanation he would no doubt receive to his question.

Fortunately, he received no such answer from the Trickster except the one he’d actually been searching for when, in the midst of sidestepping in front of him, as he often did when demanding attention, the archangel tensed up, his body curling forward as he coughed suddenly, first once, then several times, seeming to fold into himself more with each action. Sam halted, raising his eyebrows for a moment before growing concerned at the repeated sound. By the fourth one, he’d leaned forward and wrapped a gentle but reassuring hand around the angel’s upper arm, worried when he didn’t respond to the soft “Gabe?” he uttered, ducking his head to try and catch even a flicker of expression. 

“Nevermind. It’s fine.”

The words were quick, mumbled, and his eyes avoidant as he jerked away, hurriedly turning and walking briskly in the direction they’d been traveling moments ago. Sam paused briefly, before minutely pedaling it to catch back up to the guy, questioning, “Gabriel?” with his eyebrows knit swiftly together in distress, before the angel upped his pace tremendously, obviously seeking to escape the situation. 

The taller of the two slowed to a stop after a few more steps, watching as the angel surpassed him and disappeared around the bend of the hallway, nearest a door marked 206. What in the hell even was that? 

The thoughts that had been lingering at the back of his mind since that morning stretched around to reach full circle as he sighed, taking a slow step forward and continuing onward, stress etched across his features. 

In his limited but still impressive by humanly standards experience in engaging with angels, he had come to learn a plethora of information, most of which was functionally useless until this precise moment. Angels, as he’d come to know them, were assholes. Most by choice, some by lack of social skills. And Gabriel was no exception to this rule, nor the other, which was that angels were, preceding the famous heavenly lockout conducted by Metatron, usually pretty hard to beat, physically. They had no need for eating or drinking, nor did they age, resulting in a permanent freeze on their vessel’s appearance. 

From a biological standpoint, it was terrifying, what this meant. No lack of deprivation could kill them, excluding the absence of their own grace, which was what had almost done Cas in, and brought Sam to his current thoughts. Angels were difficult to kill, but archangels were harder, if not borderline impossible to get the drop on, if Gabriel himself wasn’t a perfect example. The boys had gone head-to-head with him thrice and lost each time, the third roughly qualifying as a tie only because they’d somewhat broke even with their parting positions, and the only time he’d ever needed to worry for death had been around Lucifer at the Hotel Hell. 

So if angels didn’t need to sleep or eat, and could only grow ill to their own bodies turning their back on them, it made sense to assume that archangels also fell into the category, albeit more intense in their lack of necessity. Therefore, it was curious, if not downright panic-worthy material that Sam had woken up this morning with Gabriel snuggled up against his arm, peacefully drifting through dreamland. It also begged the question as to what kind of circumstances led to the coughing fit he’d just witnessed in the hallway. And, lastly, as he’d had to lower himself to try to make eye contact with the Trickster, Sam had noticed what sure as hell looked like the beginnings of facial hair starting to sprout on the guy’s face. Gabriel, who prided himself on being clean-shaven always ‘for the ladies,’ was donning more than just a 5 o’clock shadow on this particular Wednesday, in addition to his hacking fit and apparent need to sleep, since he’d asked for ‘five more minutes’ earlier. 

He arrived in the lobby about the same time he arrived at his conclusion, noticing Castiel lingering awkwardly by reception, having a forced social interaction with the lady behind the desk, who was animatedly discussing the weather as her eyes traveled over the visibly uncomfortable angel in what was clearly sexual attraction on her end. Upon seeing his entrance, Cas immediately straightened up, calling out, “Sam!” with barely stealthy relief, and walking over, hands in the pockets of his coat.

Cas looked good in recent days. Marriage seemed to treat him well, which was a blessing considering all he’d suffered to get there. Sam was, without hesitation, thrilled that his brother had finally gotten his shit together and came to terms with his feelings for the angel, even if their affection did oftentimes make the absence of love in his life feel especially apparent whenever he spent too much time around them. Cas was the best thing to ever happen to Dean, without a doubt, and the fact that they were able to finally find happiness with one another after ten years of serving in wars they never wanted was incredible, for both an angel destined to die by his kind, and the loyal son who’d devoted his life to their father’s work. 

Sometimes Sam had to wonder when and if he would ever find someone as special to him as Cas was to Dean. He seemed to be running out of options as the years passed him by, with little to no attention paid to him by beings that didn’t intend to murder him with their bare hands. 

“Please pretend to have a conversation with me,” Cas whispered frantically, in a way that really only Cas could. “That woman was staring at me very oddly, and kept insinuating things about my body temperature that made me uncomfortable.”

Sam smiled, taking a quick glance around and realizing that Castiel was alone in the lobby excluding the receptionist and himself. Despite the fact that Gabriel had practically ran away from him earlier, the Trickster was nowhere to be found in the wide, open room they currently stood in. Curious. “Sure. Hey, uh, have you seen Gabe?”  
Cas cocked his head ever so slightly to the side, a sign that he’d intrigued the angel with his inquiry. “Yes. He is waiting in the car. Why?”

“Uh, no reason.” There was something about the cluelessness that Cas had said it with, that nonchalance, that had Sam dropping the topic as quickly as he’d brought it up. If there was something wrong with Gabriel, surely Cas would’ve sounded at least a little bit concerned. The angel wasn’t especially known for his ability to lie well either, so it seemed unlikely that he was faking, although why he would do that, Sam wasn’t entirely certain. “I just wanted to ask him something.”

“If it is about the Mardi Gras parade, he has assured me that it can wait another year. He fully anticipates all of us remaining alive for that long, so he is willing to push it off.”

The hunter frowned internally, but his face remained a mask, nodding politely to Cas his acknowledgement. Gabriel didn’t make compromises. He was a brat, and there was no such thing as compromise to him in most cases, since he usually made his own way. The fact that he was pushing this off was odd, especially considering his enthusiasm earlier. Sam was onto something now with that cough. He’d seen something he wasn’t supposed to. He was sure of that. But what did it mean?

Before he got the chance to mull it over, Dean came stumbling in behind him, clutching the handles of their luggage and parking it right beside Cas. The angel seemed visibly pleased to see his husband, taking the opportunity to glance at the woman working reception with poorly concealed disdain before leaning over to press a kiss lightly against Dean’s cheek. The older Winchester smiled, an utter dork as he tried not to show his emotions in front of everyone. Sam felt the urge to roll his eyes at the sight, but quashed it. 

He took back what he said. Their happiness was annoying.

Aside from that, there were more important matters to consider, not that either of them could look away from one another long enough to actually realize that. Sigh. Sam supposed he couldn’t totally fault them. They deserved this. Both of them had certainly suffered enough. 

“Okay. Back to the bunker we go.” Dean announced his piece before taking off proudly in the direction of the double doored exit, an extra confidence boost in his step after receiving attention from his angel. Cas followed next, eagerly trailing behind him, and catching up to walk beside his husband once the two were outside.

Sam, meanwhile, took his time with his stride, paces behind them as his mind wandered in time with his walk. As he was about to completely leave the building however, he paused in the bay between the first set of double doors indicating the entrance, and then those leading to the lobby, eye caught on something that had seemingly gotten caught in one of the glass doors heading out.  
Kneeling down, he carefully reached out and brushed the object with his fingertips, then gripping it between them and running the smooth, almost surreally airey surface between the pads. It didn’t feel of this world, he couldn’t help but note, pushing the door open just enough to unhinge the item and allow him to pick it up and stand, giving it a better onceover in the light.

There was definitely no mistaking what it was. A feather, plain as day, and even a small child could have pointed that out. But as Sam pocketed it, hurrying to get to the car as he noticed Dean waiting impatiently by the trunk for him, he wondered about that. Because not many feathers had an indescribable texture that could only maybe be comparable to what may have been the fabric of the universe itself. 

And not many feathers were of a tawny, flickering gold either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually have one other chapter finished, but...it's a little further down the line, so y'all are just gonna have to bear with me as I try to make it through finals without perishing, and type up some more slow build angst. I'm looking forward to it though. Thank you for the kudos, everyone! You guys give me life with your enthusiasm~ <3


	5. Who Let You Go

They seemed to drop like flies after that. Sam would find them underneath the table, barely visible depending on the angle, or swept to the edges of the room, kicked around by feet unaware of their presence. Once, on a chair left abandoned by the very person who seemed to be avoiding the matter with a stunning amount of success, even considering his past. Sam tried, in the following weeks and months, to confront the Trickster about his findings, but they went ignored and brushed off, unsurprisingly, as the guy further dissociated himself from the world and Sam, until eventually, he could handle the suspense no longer.

It was Wednesday. May 2nd. Also, Sam’s birthday, but they didn’t speak of that. Birthdays hadn’t meant anything since he was extremely young, and everyone since then had only served to remind him of the people and places and things he would be letting down by treating himself to the frivolity of the holiday. To him, today was merely the middle of the week, and he was one year older, one day closer to this existence of his finally fading away into wherever he would go when he died. Likely hell. The angels had never wanted him anything but dead, and the chances he would make it to heaven with their history of genocide felt slim to none unless Cas could pull strings.

But heaven wasn’t as it was. Things were...off, as described by Hannah, who had dropped by a few days prior to this one with stars in her eyes when she looked at Cas and the explanation that heaven’s high council had been dissolved forcefully by a stronger power, and that he would do well to tread carefully around his angelic brethren for the time being, seeing as the stability of their home had gone to shit yet again. While Cas had taken the news in stride, as Cas often did, Dean had been notably agitated by the circumstances. Of course, this likely had to do with the not-so-subtle feelings Hannah held for Cas once upon a time, that, frankly, didn’t look like they had dissipated at all when Sam had interrupted their chat and seen her throwing frequent glances at the angel whilst he struggled to work through the information she’d given him. Dean was mutinous. Probably also about heaven. But mainly about Hannah. Not that he’d ever admit that, regardless of how obvious it was. But he was.

Gabriel was detached from these conversations, both emotionally and physically. It was beyond bizarre how he had somehow grown closer to the younger of the two hunters, and yet still managed to avoid the frequent inquiries about the feathers splayed haphazardly throughout the house. The archangel generally spent his evenings in now, nestled between piles of books in the library with Sam, lazily helping transcribe Enochian texts for the Winchester. Sometimes he was more distracting than helpful, flicking scraps of paper aimlessly in Sam’s direction, demanding more attention than he was ready to receive, but more often than not, he was--to the hunter’s shock--actively involved in translating the ancient angelic tongue, leaning into Sam’s shoulder as he thumbed through Metatron’s writings, both formal and informal and repeating verses in English as Sam’s eyes brushed over their Enochian script. It was little to no effort for him, and so trivial to his interests that it had to be more a nuisance than worth his time, which begged the question as to why he did it, but he never answered any questions he didn’t want to. Part of the benefit of being what and who he was, Sam supposed. He didn’t think he had to. 

Tonight had Gabriel closer than usual, peering over the hunter’s shoulder as he stood overhead, shadow outlined against the pages Sam had bookmarked for conversion this evening. Small, standout hairs fanned out from behind his ears and along his neck, inches from brushing Sam’s face as the archangel glanced between lines, eyes squinted ever so slightly to determine their meaning. 

The hunter was beginning to lose his patience with the act though. Whatever was wrong with Gabriel hadn’t magically let up in the four going on five months that had elapsed since their Mardi Gras trip, and if anything, had worsened. He went to greater lengths to conceal it now, but that didn’t mean that Sam didn’t notice how often the guy ended up zonked out next to him after a particularly tiring hunt, or how he’d began to grow a bit of scruff where there was once smooth, pallid skin. He ate whenever they went out, real food no less, although he’d not lost his sweet tooth when opting for dessert, and his stamina for hunting seemed to have dramatically decreased as of late, although he merely claimed he was tired of ‘doing all of the work,’ when he stepped out of most combative situations.

A set of eyes stained by long, countless years of mystery and whiskey spills on sunlit, oak floors were watching him apprehensively by the time he noticed that he had zoned out thinking about how best to approach the angel about his new habits. Sam swallowed heavily, doing his damndest to ignore how piercing they were when he inquired, “Uh, you need something?”

“Yes. Not that I don’t treasure the attention, Sammich, but I didn’t come down here for you to make heart eyes at me while I read half a page of my brother’s abhorrent handwriting and you haven’t even lifted your pen yet.”

“S-sorry.”

It had escaped him that he had been staring, but it wouldn’t honestly have been surprising, considering. Sam had often spaced recently while looking at the guy, mostly because he’d been especially present in his mind, both for worry and curiosity. Gabriel was still overly private about his past and hadn’t dared breach the topic since their late night chat in the New Orleans hotel room, meanwhile Sam had only continued to grow more intrigued by the cluster of feathers he’d been collecting off various surfaces around the Bunker and the bizarre human tendencies that the guy had been picking up with no explanation. He wanted to know. What, he wasn’t sure, but he was absolutely fascinated and terrified with what Gabriel hid, both now and from his past before his fall.

“Don’t worry about it. I’d be happy to pose for a photo sometime. Nudes cost extra though, I’m afraid.”

Sam snorted, shaking his head and lowering his gaze to the blank notebook in front of him, labeled with the day’s date. “Yeah, no thanks. You’re not my type.”

“You sure? That’s not what I heard.”

“Leave my relationship history out of this. Okay. What does the passage say?” Sam picked up the pen next to him and clicked it, ready to notate.

“Eh, it’s just Metatron going on and on about how he made God laugh like, once. It’s pretty boring. I’m much more interested in why exactly it is 5:00pm on the dot, and we have yet to celebrate another year of everyone’s favorite Winchester being spectacularly not dead.”

His hand tensed, tip of the pen hovering over an empty page before he loosed his grip, hand falling back onto the table. The urge to sigh was tempting, but he withheld it, well aware he would need the strength for the inevitable argument that was about to occur. “I’m not much into birthdays,” he replied shortly, hair shifting as he tilted his head away from the Trickster.  
“What?!” Gabe’s melodrama was expected, but Sam hadn’t anticipated the sheer volume of the guy’s voice as he screeched beside him, and automatically cringed. “You? Don’t be ridiculous, Sam. If anyone should be toasting to another year of surviving, it’s you and Dean. I mean, you almost die on the daily. I would’ve thought you would’ve accrued more of an appreciation for being alive.”

_Not really,_ Sam thought sourly. He shrugged noncommittally, silently wishing in vain that Gabriel would just drop the topic. He did not want to discuss it, now or ever, but especially not today, since he was trying his best to forget that it was even happening. 

“Sorry, kid. But this just won’t do.” 

Sam released the pen, looking up in both fear and annoyance from the white expanse of page to meet the sight of the archangel wistfully staring up into the upper right corner of the room, stroking his chin with a masterminded gesture as he likely came up with scenarios he thought would be fun for a party the hunter had no interest in having. 

The younger Winchester was paralyzed for a few moments, caught at a standstill as he struggled to make his mouth form words that could halt Gabriel’s plans before he got too ahead of himself, as the angel often did. “I-I’m sorry?” was all he was able to vocalize once able to speak again.

Gabriel’s eyes flickered to him, endlessly layered in multiple hues of both hazel and honey underneath the shoddy lighting, and he answered slowly, unmoving, “We’re going to celebrate your birthday, party-pooper. You may not value a good time yet, but perhaps that’s because you’ve never had one, hence why I am here to fulfill all of your most crazy wishes and desires. That being said, let’s get to it. What do you want most in this world?”

 _To be normal._ “I-I don’t...look, this isn’t…” Sam couldn’t find the words he needed in the mess of emotions running through his head at the idea of actually having a party. On one hand, the Trickster was right--loathe though he was to say it. Maybe they should have celebrating. Each year more in their line of work was a huge milestone, but it felt wrong to drink to that, considering the others who had lost their lives so that they could live. The world was constantly turning, and humanity was always outrunning death, tripping and trading others to save their own skin, whether they mean to or not. Sam had never wanted anyone to become collateral damage for them, but it had happened. Ellen. Jo. Bobby. Kevin. Jessica. All of them had perished in the vain effort of keeping them alive. And for what? He wondered. This pathetic existence they contented themselves with? Misery? 

“How about a trip to Europe? I’m gonna assume you’ve never been since Dean about pisses himself anytime planes are so much as mentioned. We could go to Paris! Ever seen the city lit up at night? I tell ya, it’s way more breathtaking in person. And hey, they have all these museums in Berlin that you’re totally going to love! History and all that. Art, maybe? I don’t entirely remember. But yeah. So Europe?”

“Gabriel,” Sam sighed, struggling to swallow the lump rapidly building in his throat as the Trickster spun around, making a grandiose gesture with his hands and leaning forward to throw an expectant grin at the hunter, who merey sunk further into his chair, wanting to fade away into the nothingness. “I-I don’t really--”

“Sam, live a little. I insist. It’s all on me. So come on! What do you say? Let’s go! Don’t even try to tell me you don’t deserve it either, because you practically live in this room, researching.” With one hand in the air, finger flexed to snap his fingers and off them, he reached out and grabbed Sam’s wrist, then quickly swiped the pads of his fingertips together, creating a loud pop in the room they were in. Sam instinctively flinched and closed his eyes, ready this time, finally, for the inertial nightmare that came with his insides being reorganized through Enochian travel, but in the following moments, no such sensation overcame his body, tormenting his senses with overstimulation.

Tenderly, he felt the fingers around his wrist go slack, falling one by one from his skin, and hesitantly opened his eyes to see Gabriel staring with a myriad of emotions, none of which were positive, at his raised hand and their unchanged surroundings. The hunter gulped, straightening up in his chair and finally finding the words he needed, urging himself forward in his chair to reach out and lay a palm flat across the table. “You’re losing your powers.”

An angry gaze flickered in his direction, a 180 change from his previous, numbed apathy he’d had regarding the failed transportation. “Excuse me?”

“The feathers, around the house. Your…” Sam made a gesture to the facial hair beginning to creep up the Trickster’s jaw. “...that. This attempt to get me out of the house. You don’t participate in hunts anymore, and you eat more than Dean does, somehow. There’s something wrong with you. Why don’t you just tell me what it is so we can help?”

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” the archangel hissed defensively. “I’m fine, Sam. We aren’t talking about me, last time I checked. And even if you want to go there, then okay, maybe I’ve been a little off my game recently, but I’m not losing my grace. Don’t presume to know about matters of which you have such little knowledge, Sammich, or else I’ll make good on my threats to throw you and your brother into TV land once more.”

And yet, he looked anything but fine. Hands tensed, skin pale. That slow-growing attempt at a beard. A pathetic, deflective threat. Sam knew the type. Dean was about the same in dealing with problems, especially when it came to admitting them and asking for help. The only difference here was, Gabriel wasn’t his blood, and the angel had no reason to stay, to ask them for assistance for healing his wounds. He could just as easily bolt and find other resources. He surely had them, regardless of how questionable their intentions, as that didn’t matter, since Gabriel was, by definition, a risk to himself on any given day. The guy had a killer self-destructive streak, so being stabbed in the back just came with the territory. Ie:, the Pagan gods. 

Sam merely watched on as Gabriel continued, agitation visibly growing beneath his words, “You know what? If you want to avoid your birthday so bad, then fine. Have it your way, kiddo. I was just thinking maybe you deserved a break, but since you’ve evidently been spending all your time psychoanalyzing me, never mind. Enjoy your uneventful evening, Moose.” He turned, briskly walking towards the door, before whirling around and adding, “Also, mind your own fucking business,” before waltzing out.

The hunter glanced back down the text and exhaled, entire body sinking as he did so, before flipping the pages back to the start, and returning it to the top of a pile he’d been working on for several months. He didn’t know why he bothered with it, really. It wasn’t like any of the information in Metatron’s writing was relevant or useful. These had been his personal notations and observations. Not the Word of God. The guy was annoying and whiny and conceited while at the same time being unbelievably self-conscious. These weren’t groundbreaking revelations or even little factoids about heaven. It was pointless, this. But it at least kept him busy, and he’d thought---mistakenly, evidently--that served as a good, safe segue to befriend the archangel that had been living in the Bunker for the better part of a year.

But Gabriel was still heavily intertwined with his previous existence of distrust and deceit. It wasn’t surprising at all that he refused to acknowledge that there was a problem. That would be like admitting weakness, and he couldn’t think of a single angel who advertised that, excluding Cas, whose personality barely qualified as Type A at this point, with the A standing for angel in this case. All of this was further amplified by his expanded, ethereal status as an archangel, meaning he was not only stronger than all of his siblings, but also infinitely more respected due to his crown. He was a prince of heaven, essentially. Of course he hadn’t taken it well. 

Sam stood up, stretching his arms and pushing in his chair before heading out into the hallway. The drab, metallic colors of the Bunker seemed to close in on him as he walked, first to the kitchen to grab a beer, and then further on to his room, first passing by Dean’s, where he was greeted with the noises of his brother and the angel having what was no doubt a good time. He sucked in air through his teeth, turning the corner and ducking into his own domicile, taking care to shut the door and also any thoughts of what he just heard out from his mind before plopping down on the bed and popping the tab off his drink. 

His room was uncomfortably clean, and also uncomfortably plain, as though it were questionable as to whether or not anyone actually lived there whenever he wasn’t sleeping. No photos adorned the tables flanking the bed, nor articles of clothing strung about the floor, thrown around with no respect to order or time management. It was completely unlike Dean’s room, which was as lived in as one could get. His clothes were everywhere, as were Cas’s, and personal artifacts were placed haphazardly about the space as gentle reminders of who he was, and what he fought for. Sam didn’t know what he fought for anymore. His body and mind had been conditioned to do it on habit now for so long, he didn’t falter in his duties, but he had been forgetting recently why they needed done.

The world was calm right now, and it had been for a while. Dean and Cas had gotten hitched, and checked out of caring about including others in their little hive of bliss, not that it mattered. Sam didn’t resent not spending time with his brother. They rarely saw eye-to-eye about anything, hence why working together presented such a challenge, but personal contentions were shoved aside early on in their profession to make way for the ultimate problem of the year. Sometimes it was Leviathans. Sometimes the Apocalypse. Once, it had even been Cas and the Holy War. But his work with Dean was never really enjoyable, nor much of a choice, and he didn’t hate that Cas had usurped much of his brother’s time. In fact, it would been relieving, if not for the fact that Sam couldn’t take one step outside this 10-year comfort zone he’d built for himself, and try to reconstruct his life into something happy.

Part of that was feeling like he didn’t deserve that privilege. He gently propped himself up against the headboard of the bed and sighed, both his head and body feeling like a solid stack of bricks were sitting where his organs should’ve been, before grabbing the remote and turning on the TV. The weather flashed to life on the small flat-screen, volume a low hum next to the muffled sounds next door, which Sam had all but forgotten out of sheer habit. Evidently, they were supposed to be receiving some intense storms in the next few days, according to the spindly young man pointing haphazardly to the animated diagram of the mid-U.S. It was not a good sign, but Sam found himself smiling anyway. The rain was soothing to hear sometimes.

He loved rainy days when he went to Stanford. The entire month of April was studying anyway, so being holed up in the library or his dorm, with the window barely cracked and his books splayed out in front of him, notes at the ready, was no bother, especially when coupled with the soft splatting sounds of water drops falling against the pavement or roof. The noise helped him to concentrate. Silence was no good. He thought in silence, but not about what he needed to. 

He thought about what they’d lost. What Dean had lost, because of him. Their mother was dead because he had to be a Winchester. Their father? Dead. Not that that was as big of a loss. The man had done nothing but abuse them, physically, emotionally and mentally, with Dean taking the largest brunt of that. And worse off, Sam had known that deep down, he did love them. But he couldn’t express it in any other form besides pawning off his parental responsibilities on Dean and running off to try and protect them from monsters that wanted little to do with them. Azazel was an anomaly, but he had to wonder sometimes, whether or not they could have avoided the Apocalypse. If Dean had only just let him die the first time...maybe they would have been fine. Sam didn’t recall those moments before Dean had sold his soul, whether he spent them in heaven or hell, or some odd purgatorial space, awaiting final judgement by some divinity, but wherever he had been, it would have been sparing the lives of his friends if Dean had just laid down and accepted being alone. Accepted failing. 

But Dean didn’t accept failing. He rarely ever did, hence how they ended up crisscrossing God’s country last year to look for Cas when his older brother had fucked up and said some needlessly cruel things to the vulnerable, and at the time human, angel. Cas had disappeared off the map for months, almost accruing a half year of searching before resurfacing at a lavish party thrown by Balthazar only to save Dean and countless others from being killed by Azrael, the angel of death. He’d appeared alongside two companions, one of whom had since moved out to pursue her own passions, and the other of whom had stalked off after a confrontation with Sam no longer than ten minutes ago. Gabriel was brazenly confident, pompous even, in his rhetoric preceding Dean and Cas’s reconciliation, and had initially spurned the relationship, ignoring Cas for weeks before finally coming through to resolve their brotherhood. Like Dean, Gabriel was prone to overreacting. He also didn’t accept failure particularly well. He embraced it in some sense, like with his family, and Sam genuinely thought that was worse, albeit understandable. He also embraced failure himself. He was a monster. He knew this. 

Slowly, he rolled over onto his side and closed his eyes, not bothering to turn the power off on the TV before closing his eyes and slipping a hand underneath his pillow.

It wasn’t some treat to himself, a nap. It was a way of living, considering he’d pulled an all-nighter the day previously, and was going to crash soon given his current sleep schedule if he didn’t take a short rest. This was planning for the future. Not a gift. There was nothing else at the moment that he could’ve been doing, either. The case of angel deaths they had been tracking across the Eastern seaboard had gone cold a few days ago, and had yet to re-emerge with new information, meanwhile, every other hunter in the country was apparently ‘on the case,’ with every other unusual occurrence he could find in the news. It wasn’t as if he could work on decoding Metatron’s writing, either. Having Gabriel’s help in translating it had made him weak in being able to identify Enochian, even if it was far quicker than Sam individually attempting to translate and then conjugate before transcribing. It was out of his league now, with his current aptitude. 

So it wasn’t as if this were some kind of birthday surprise for himself, a bit of sleep. He nuzzled his head into the pillow and exhaled heavily into the fabric, warming it with his breath. The muscles in his body relaxed after a few moments, and the gradual fade-out of his awareness to his surroundings followed in suit right after that. It was relaxing, to sleep now that Lucifer was gone. Relaxed. The world disappeared around him, piece by piece as he descended into dreamland. 

It wasn’t as he remembered it, years ago, when they’d come to ward out the poltergeist tormenting a mother and her two children, and seen the ghost of their burning mother greet them. This house was older. Decorated differently. The calendar on the wall predated the 21st century. This was his home, as he should have known it. As he should have grown up in it, if not for who he was--no, what he was. He stood in the room that was once his, crib still present, with no child inside. All of the dreams recently had started like this. Somewhere in that house. That place.

Jessica was there, smiling at him, hands intertwined in his, as though the walls around them were theirs to own, as though they themselves had decided to settle a second generation on this cursed ground, tainted by the blood of an entire family. Except, in this dream, no such thing had happened, as was evidenced by the lack of ominous atmosphere, and the sincere warmth he felt brewing deep within his soul as he met her eyes, a smile creeping across his face.

This wasn’t a birthday gift, but it was the closest he would allow himself to one, forehead against hers, the rush of being alive and well vibrant in his veins. It wasn’t a sensation he was familiar with in the real world, where everything seemed to constantly be falling into ruin around him. This was a kindness he was no longer used to, a luxury he no longer experienced, and hadn’t for a very long time. To feel loved by someone. To feel loved and blessed and God, just, to just feel like a person rather than a hunter, whose pain and misery trailed him everywhere he went. He relished it, in the small of her back and in the delightful tint of green in her blue eyes, that right here, right now, in this world, he was her everything and she was his and there was nothing else. No angels or demons or things that went bump bump in the night. Only them.

Sam’s heart absolutely ached for that.

She never spoke, a reminder that this was an illusion in its entirety, but it could be ignored in favor of everything else lovely and life-like about her. Aside from that, her gaze told a story in itself, as though words were unneeded in this bond of theirs. And for hours, he could do this. Days, even. Maybe even forever. It was content and quaint and relieving, and Sam thought he would be perfectly happy to die like this.

Not today though.

He jolted awake to the abrupt, soft knock on his door, hand immediately wrapping around the blade stashing beneath his pillow as he lifted his head, hair falling into his face with the motion. Cautiously, he climbed off the bed, the setting beginning to filter back into his senses, and the bliss of tranquility shattered by whatever visitor he had demanding his attention. He approached the door with hesitancy, inquiring a quiet, “Yes?” nearest the crack.

He’d been anticipating Dean or Cas, but to his surprise, the voice he heard in response was the gentle rasp of none other than the very archangel he’d pissed off earlier. “It’s me.”

Sam cracked the door open just a tad, enough to poke his head out to meet a very conflicted-looking Trickster, eyes edgily avoiding his by a hair anytime the hunter attempted to initiate eye contact in the awkward seconds that followed before he next spoke. “So...Europe is a no-go. Would you maybe be down for a shitty romcom and popcorn?” 

Despite his annoyance that the guy had interrupted his very brief reprieve from existence as the world’s most cursed bastard, Sam had to crack a small smile at the suggestion, which seemed to lift the angel’s spirits at least somewhat. “Maybe.” It sounded an awful lot like a date, but he tried not to think about the connotations of that. Dating Gabriel. _Wow._ What a mess for both of them. 

“Okay, great, because I already have a list of ten that are on Netflix right now, and we should take the opportunity now, since Dean and my brother are clearly occupied.” Gabriel was visibly relieved that the conversation’s light tone hadn’t been shifted back to that of their parting words, entering the room as Sam released his grip on the door, allowing the angel to enter and make himself welcome. 

He would have been bothered by this intrusion, and the timing especially, if he were any more tied to the dream world he’d just awoken from, and he weren’t concerned about the guy ghosting them. Gabriel was almost certainly ill in some way or another; if Sam could ease him into a state of coziness where he felt comfortable admitting to that and maybe even accepting help, it would be better for all of them, long-term. They didn’t need a sick, wounded, and belligerently disobedient archangel on their hands, not with the current heavenly reign being unclear in their intentions. 

Thus, he found himself turning and joining Gabriel on the bed, taking care to put space between their bodies as the Trickster sought out the remote and began browsing Netflix with a curious expression that could’ve borderlined cute if he weren’t a terrifying force of celestial power that had killed Dean over a hundred times on a Tuesday. Sam carefully watched behind him, mentally tracing across his small frame the shape of wings, and what they looked like now, having lost so many feathers. He’d found hundreds at this point, around the house and elsewhere. There was no way Gabriel’s wings didn’t look a mess, unless they were molting which, to Sam’s best knowledge, angels did not do. Castiel’s feathers were not scattered across their home, nor had they ever been, and that was enough proof for him to discount that theory.

“Okay, kiddo. Here are our options. We can settle for an Adam Sandler classic that will make us both gouge our eyes out halfway through, attempt How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days and lose our sense of wanting to live on this planet anymore in ten minutes, or, we can just completely declare our desire to commit seppuku by subjecting ourselves to Nicholas Cage as--wait for it--...the Family Man.” 

Sam chuckled, unable to hold in his amusement. He hadn’t been expecting such honest sarcasm from Gabriel; normally his humor was more veiled, punny and crass, but he appreciated the crossover. All of what the angel said had been true. The question was: how did they want to suffer? 

Interestingly enough, he didn’t bother validating this waste of his time. There was something about the hesitancy Gabriel had knocked with, and that tiny confirmation of his identity that had Sam too worried about him to honestly care that he was going to spend the next two hours holed up with a bowl of popcorn, subjecting himself to the atrocity that was the romantic comedy genre. Honestly, it wasn’t such a bad way to spend an evening--if he were a normal person, which, to be fair, he was more than willing to subscribe to, temporarily, if it meant uncovering what was wrong with the guy next to him.

Speaking of, Gabe was looking him over for a response before he’d had time to properly process. “I’m, uh, all in. Nicholas Cage. Go big or go home.”

“That’s the spirit, Samsquatch. Hey, you should get it started. I’m going to grab a beer. Or ten. Better go with ten, just to be safe. You want anything?”

Sam had to pause before speaking, not because he didn’t know what he wanted to say, but because he wasn’t sure if he should say it. “Yeah. Let’s break out the whiskey. Forget about the beers.”

The mischievous curve of Gabe’s smirk about gave him heart palpitations with its deviousness. “And here you were, saying you didn’t like to celebrate,” he remarked slyly, adding a quick wink in the direction of the hunter who, needless to say, was flustered slightly by the gesture, flicking hair out of his face and averting his eyes as the angel slipped out of the room momentarily. 

He felt guilty about this, and it hadn’t even happened yet. It was wrong, on a fundamental level, to get someone to drunk to prove or disprove their tolerance, but it was a quicker way to get to the bottom of things than waiting for Gabriel to come around to admitting a problem. Archangels could not get trashed. Their ability to process alcohol was too advanced. Castiel could, and sometimes did, if not simply to try and forget his problems, much like the kids around Sam had when he was in college. Sam didn’t usually drink either, but for the purposes of finding out what the hell Gabe was hiding from them, he was willing to take one for the team.

It was his birthday too, so it wasn’t overly suspicious to be sipping on booze. It almost seemed right. He may not have been able to fool the Trickster, but he might not have to in this case. This was natural, celebrating another year of living with whiskey, popcorn and romcoms. At least, as natural as his life was going to ever get. 

On cue, Gabriel strode back in with an extra pep in his step, fingers wrapped around a bottle of aged whiskey and two cups and a popcorn bag respectively. He dropped one such cup on Sam’s lap, before hopping back on the bed, releasing the popcorn bag between the two of them and reaching for the remote. “Ready?” he inquired. 

“I don’t think anyone is ever ready for a Nicholas Cage film.”

“You’re not wrong.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I MISS WRITING FLUFF. I really just want to write fluff for these two. Like, honestly, haven't they suffered enough in canon? Unfortunately, that isn't really what is ahead, but you know, I'm going to enjoy writing it while I still can. As always, thank you all so much for the kudos and comments! Feedback is appreciated! Also: popcorn and romcoms with alcohol next chapter is something to hella look forward to, y'all.


	6. Show Your Bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are a lot of better things to be looking at in a room besides a movie sometimes. Especially when that movie happens to feature Nicholas Cage.

It was hindsight’s mistake, but Sam had lost control of this situation. Somewhere in the course of an hour in, he’d asked for more alcohol than his system was ready to compute, leaving him giggling senselessly for about a straight seven minutes now, practically collapsing in on the angel laying in his lap, who was equally amused, probably not by the movie’s atrocious acting, but by Sam’s vaguely inhuman noises. Gabriel had given up any semblance of maintaining personal space twenty minutes ago, and had contorted himself to a variety of shapes nearest the hunter, including his current one, which entailed his head being propped up on a pillow on the younger Winchester’s lap, a set of fingers subconsciously stroking through the ends of his hair as the their owner’s eyes were fixated to the screen with what was almost certainly the most welcome laughter the Trickster had heard in his entire Earthly existence. Sam had a beautiful laugh, one that he’d rarely heard until tonight, and that in itself would’ve been a shame without factoring in how touchy feely the kid got when wasted. The soft caress of those gentle fingers through his hair was something he was going to strongly miss come morning time, when Sam would most likely forget he’d ever laid so much as a hand on the angel.

“Gabe?” 

The archangel glanced up from his position against the pillow, turning his head slightly to meet wide, aqua eyes swimming in intoxication. “Sammich?” He didn’t like admitting it, but he had grown severely fond of how the hunter said his name. He’d never liked the shortened version; it reminded him of home. But for Sam Winchester, he made a small exception. He knew it was well-intentioned, as were most things the guy did. Sam was the purer of the two, and frankly, didn’t deserve to have to live in a world like this. It was an injustice. 

“I was just wondering about...um...your w…--uh...um...nevermind. Sorry.” The question was erased as quickly as it had been posed, as the Moose looked away, scratching his neck in obvious discomfort. 

Ooh. Now this was interesting. Gabriel sprung up into a sitting posture immediately, alert. “No, no, go on. I want to hear this.”

“You’re going to say no.” The way he sounded was almost pathetic, the way he said it. Father, if the kid gave him puppy eyes, he was done for at this point. He absolutely loathed it, but there was something hypnotic in the younger Winchester’s eyes whenever he pulled that shit. It wasn’t human. 

“You don’t know that. Hell, do you know me at all? I’m down for pretty much anything. Or did you drink so much you forgot who I am?” 

The bitch face he was flashed with at that particular moment reaffirmed Sam’s ability to identify the angel sitting by him on the bed. He took a deep breath, glancing once, then twice, holding his gaze steadily on the second try as he phrased his request. “I...I was going to ask if I could see your wings. I’m sorry. I know you’re really private about them, and I’m...I know you don’t trust us. I was just curious. I’ve never even really seen Cas’s, and I’ve read so many different accounts of what they’re supposed to look like, I’ve been wondering for months.” 

He immediately looked away after finishing his sentence, awaiting the fallout, but none came. Gabriel pursed his lips, expression shifting to one not easily identifiable on the surface nor beneath. Sam wasn’t wrong. His first instinct was definitely to say no. He’d have said no to anyone who’d have asked, on today or any other day, except...maybe the person sitting in front of him. He was terrified to look up and perhaps accidentally cross paths with the infamous puppy eyes that would solidify his answer, but tentatively, after a few moments, he mumbled a short, “Okay,” under his breath anyway. 

It wasn’t as simple a gesture as it would have been months ago. Sam had, unfortunately, hit the nail on the head earlier. He was suffering as of late, dropping feathers left and right as his wings began to become less and less functional, and his grace started to glitch in and out, hindering his ability to do anything beyond the limitations of his human vessel. He’d tried to spare the Winchesters and Cas the burden of this revelation. It was something he could handle on his own, and it likely would repair itself. Worse things had happened. Now, usually, they had at least somewhat began to patch themselves together at this point, whereas thus far, he’d seen no improvement, but...there was still a chance this wasn’t anything too serious. The moment he said anything to someone, it wouldn’t be, so he kept his mouth shut.

But showing Sam his wings, even in this drunk state, would be opening himself up to a world of vulnerability that he wasn’t sure he was ready to face, even with Sam, who he felt arguably closer to than anyone else in the Bunker at this point, including Cas, his dumbass of a brother who had more or less floated off into la-la land after his marriage to Dean. No more were the days of brotherly bitch sessions, or occasional, two-man hunts where they would be done by noon and get to goof off in shopping malls and bars for the rest of the day. He hadn’t really spoken candidly to Castiel in months, and the fact that his brother hadn’t noticed his decaying wings as of late would have been concerning, if Gabriel knew for a fact that Cas actually looked anywhere but wherever Dean did, and Dean usually liked to forget that he lived here. 

His liking for the older Winchester hadn’t increased much with time since he’d settled into the Bunker and made it his dwelling. Dean approached his existence with rubber gloves on, as though Gabriel were likely to spontaneously combust at any moment, and splatter their lives with ruin and damnation. He supposed he might have deserved that treatment considering Mystery Spot, but even still. This entire concept of moving in with the Winchesters in the first place had been to mend fences and repair bridges burnt by past acts. And Gabriel understood exercising a grain or so of caution; they’d gotten scorched before by him, but Dean’s attitude didn’t read like someone who kept their 10-foot distance out of fear for their safety. It read as predatory. As though he thought Gabriel was going to whisk Cas away again, like a year ago, even if that wasn’t even close to what had happened. Cas had left of his own accord, Dean’s own fault, but Gabe wouldn’t have been surprised if the hunter blamed him for it. He was an easy target. And in a way, he had _kept_ Cas away. For the safety of that passionate organ in his chest, he’d tried to steer Cas clear of the Winchesters ever again. And for a while, he’d thought that would work, like the fool he was.

Silly of him, looking back on it. Like cockroaches or the varicella virus, the Winchesters always resurfaced, and usually, with a greater vengeance and more blind, reckless misunderstanding than before.

Sam scooted forward slightly, pulling the covers with him unintentionally, cocking his head minutely to the side and asking hesitantly, “Okay? R-Really? Are...are you sure? You don’t have to. Look, it was stupid. I’ll just--”

“Shut up, Sam.”

It was instantaneous and drawn out at the same time, how what little of golden wings he had left came to unfurl themselves into visibility under the dim lighting of the bedroom, and how the hunter’s eyes followed them with awe, jaw dropping in an almost comedic fashion as they fully spread out, one reaching out and accidentally brushing his cheek with the most unbelievably soothing, gentle touch that had ever made contact with his skin. The Trickster kept a poker face, expression masked under a mix of pride and indifference as Sam took in the sight.

He was being fucking ruined by this kid. This was precisely why he chose not to get close to humans, particularly humans as stupidly perfect as Sam fucking Winchester, with his high cheekbones and hero complex and dumb, bookish interests. Humans as selfless as to die for someone they barely know. He didn’t show his wings to non-angels. It was a cardinal rule, for as long as he’d been on this Earth. And yet, he felt compelled to do this, maybe if not for Sam, then for him. Maybe it was time to stop pretending he was fine and accept some help. On the other hand, maybe not, because the hunter literally might not even recall this tomorrow. 

It was an uncomfortably bare position to be in, either way.

“Gabriel…” the younger Winchester breathed, voice coming out in a light husk as he memorized the sight, “...they’re beautiful.”

He forgot to breathe for a second. “And you’re drunk.” He was not playing this game tonight. It was enough of a gamble with the wings. He was not going to be made a fool for taking a compliment that only a drunkard could mean. He knew damn well what he was, and a mistake and waste of grace didn’t even begin to cover it most of the time. 

“Your feathers...” Without so much a shred of thought visibly bothering to make its way through his head, the hunter reached out and brushed rough, imperfect knuckles against the feathers, instinctively drawing them back as the archangel flinched. “Wait,” Sam backtracked, as soon as he was able to process, holding his palms out in frantic apology. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to, um, overstep my boundaries. My bad.”

Although he paused before doing so, deliberating the choice he was about to make, Gabriel eventually extended golden feathers forth once more, pushing them intentionally against the right cheek of the hunter, who, after moment of doubt, reached up and placed his hand over them, encapsulating a few of them within the warm embrace of human skin. “Thank you,” he murmured, speaking directly to the eyes of the angel he sat across from. “Also, I wasn’t kidding. They are beautiful. Truly. I mean that. You should be proud.”

He was. Generally. His hiding his wings had nothing to do with his confidence. It was more a self-defense mechanism. He wore his personality and interests on sleeve, but this, this was one private right he kept to himself, until now. This damn moose, setting precedent. He hated it.

“Yeah, well, you probably won’t remember this anyway,” he mumbled begrudgingly, eyes traversing the defined jawline of the hunter as he gingerly brushed the pads of his fingers over top of the feathers, sending barely controllable shivers down their owner’s spine. He squinted involuntarily, balling his hands into fists clutching the sheets beneath them. Sam didn’t miss the small motion, despite how little attention he tried to draw to himself, inhaling sharply, but saying nothing.

“Does...it hurt?”

“Little bit.” It wasn’t a lie, per se. His wings were in constant pain, their nerve endings jacked up by the ever-present, unexpected shedding he’d been doing as of late, and he was in agony more often than not the past few weeks, hence why he’d been hanging back on hunts and what not. He wasn’t going to confess that to Sam though, lest he worry this drunk, innocent creature cradling golden feathers against his pleasantly warm skin, nor was he about to tell him that the gut reactions he’d had to the touch had nothing to do with pain. It had to do with something far more dangerous to admit. 

“What’s wrong with you? Or am I allowed to ask?”

Gabe chuckled, wings shifting in accordance to the light hum of his body. Sam was drawn into the motion, silently fighting to keep those glorious, universe-altering feathers pressed against his fingertips if for no other reason than just to feel their otherworldliness, but didn’t protest when they withdrew from his cheek, seeming to fold inwards with Gabriel’s amusement. “We all got damages, kid. This just happens from time to time. Hazard of the job, you might say.”

“...Right.”

His eyes flickered a multitude of hazels, honeys and browns in the ridiculously dim light emitted from the lamp on the table, very similar to that which filtered through the sliver of remaining whiskey in the glass bottle atop the side table. His hair was messy, sticking up in the back and going every which way from having been curled up with the pillow in Sam's lap. And with that small, fake smile he was pulling, even the heavily intoxicated Winchester knew he was lying. But he let it slide, as people often do whenever the waters are calm, and they want to enjoy the peace and bliss. This was no different than his nightmares, really.

Everyone was running from something. This was Gabriel’s something, damned though it may have been, because to see that half-assed grin slide off the angel’s face not even a second after averting his eyes concluding his statement was unexpectedly brutal. Sam cared. He cared about everyone, essentially, even those he shouldn’t have, and even though Gabriel fell into an awkward category of in-between shouldn’t and obligated, he cared anyway, because it was his nature. Not to mention, the guy really wasn’t so bad after all. He’d cured his nightmares without so much as a request to do so, and he constantly seemed to be reaching out beyond his comfort zone to fit in with their family, such as this current gesture of showing Sam his flawless and unworldly wings. They felt like a physical personification of fictitious, popular heaven: all glory and clouds and airey, weightless happiness. Seeing them in this state destroyed him more than he’d would have audibly admitted to. 

Gabriel deserved better, for what he’d been through, and how he’d been making an effort to reform himself into a reasonable person after fleeing his home and doing the dance of deceit and desserts for years. He’d really made progress ever since moving in with them. Sam saw a huge change in the smartass sitting across from him with the mussed up hair and warm, whiskey eyes, looking nearly--dare he say it--cute with his work-in-process beard and oversized clothes that he had filched from someone else’s--perhaps Sam’s--wardrobe.

His face grew warm at that image for some reason, although he wasn’t quite sure as to why. The idea of the Trickster wearing his clothes shouldn’t have been appealing; he actually was in desperate need of new shirts but had been declining to go buy any due to the lack of sales in the area. And cute? What was that even? Gabriel, cute? As if. Maybe when he wasn’t wrecking terror on people’s lives, throwing them into Japanese gameshows or genital herpes commercials. 

...Which...he wasn’t currently doing. Fuck, Sam realized with a pang. No. No no no. The panic on his face probably showed, but fortunately, the Trickster wasn’t paying attention, head turned towards the tail end of the film they had been ignoring for the better part of half an hour. This wasn’t happening. This could not be happening. He didn’t actually like the guy...like that? Right? This was...temporary insanity. Yeah. 

He’d never even really liked a guy before, period, but that wasn’t what had him frozen in anxiety, swallowing a lump in his throat as he deftly stared at the back of Gabe’s head, his hair looking somehow more ridiculous from this angle than before. Gabriel was Cas’s brother, and a flight risk if he’d ever seen one. His reliability was somewhere in the negatives, and he’d never given any signal of being anything but against monogamy and long-term commitments in general. He was also an archangel, which was fucking terrifying. There were literally so many problems with this revelation that Sam’s head was spinning.

And yet, all of it was in the back of his mind, drowned out by the overwhelming urge to just _test_ this ridiculous hypothesis somehow. His eyes were beginning to droop as the heaviness of sleep dawned upon them, pulling them down with its weight, and he had to blink a few times to reconnect with reality before noticing that he had an audience. Gabriel had leaned over, the credits rolling, and was speaking in a low hum, “I’m giving it a 4/10. The four is for too much Nicholas Cage. You?”

Those freaking eyes felt like they were looking straight through him, outlining every single one of the very conflicted emotions he was experiencing, and analyzing them beneath a microscope. “Uh, same,” he nodded, struggling to keep his head up with this sudden rush of tiredness that had come over him, along with the continually damning fact that Gabriel seemed to get prettier every second longer he looked at the guy. Inside and out. 

This had to be loneliness. He was dying of it, practically. It was the longing, and the dreams with Jess, and the disgusting couple next door to them who couldn’t keep their hands or eyes off of each other. It wasn’t an excuse to be so desperate as to go after the only other person in the house left besides him who wasn’t taken, especially considering what an unpredictable, and volatile risk Gabriel could be sometimes. That wasn’t even taking into consideration the issues that would come with actually engaging into a relationship with the guy, no matter how temporary. He averted his eyes automatically, blinking rapidly as he attempted to reason that this urge he was having was an incredibly bad idea. 

What made the situation worse was the movement the archangel in question made following his comment, his wings lengthening and reaching out to test the edges of silky, indescribable feathers against the skin of the hunter’s cheeks, nearly tickling him with their swift brushes. “Don’t tell me you’re quitting early on me, Sammich,” he heard a voice whisper near his face. “It’s barely midnight. Wakey-wakey.”

“S-sorry.” As their eyes locked, their faces only inches away from one another, Sam found himself frozen, with the Trickster mischievously smirking at him, a single concept, as well as its complement running through his mind. He wanted to kiss him. It was a terrible idea, and he was damn well aware of that, but it definitely didn’t keep his eyes from wandering beneath the sorrel-haired archangel’s nose, fixated on the tiniest articulations made by his lips as his expression shifted, and he cleared his throat. 

“Ah-hem. Moose. Do I have something on my face?” 

“N-no.” 

And yet, his gaze kept making frequent pilgrimages downward and then back up again, each time seeming to pinpoint another layer of silky gold unfolding underneath those masked eyes watching him with apprehension. 

“This isn’t funny,” Gabriel spoke dryly, raising his chin in dominance. “Is it my hair?” He raised a brow along with his hands, about to smooth over the awkward strands spiking haphazardly up in the back before abruptly being halted by the presence of strong, weathered hands touching his jawline, then easing their way upwards to cup the edges of his face. A real fear blossomed in his chest as he met a completely blank-faced Sam head-on, his own fingers at a standstill in midair beginning to tense as the hunter didn’t move to clarify just what in the hell he thought he was doing, but instead remained there, eyes fixed against his.

He hadn’t had a palm rest against his cheek that wasn’t a painless slap in several hundred years. Affection wasn’t something easy to come by for him. The kind of relationships he’d found himself repeatedly in throughout time were loveless and without that sort of fluffy, romantic sentiment that caused people to stick around. It was easy, that way. Painless. He upped and left as many beings that up and left him, and since there was no love gained, there was none lost. Everyone was a booty call, where he’d been. Even an archangel posing as a Pagan god. 

In that moment, he was struck with a whole new sort of terror than one he’d ever experienced, but it hit like a plane’s wing sideswiping him, and leaving a large, gaping gash across his chest that burned, burned like hell itself was catching fire in his ribcage. What the fuck kind of feeling? He thought to himself, swallowing the heavy lump that had decided to abruptly build up in his throat and fix itself there, before throwing on the mental brakes as he began to recall. The last time he’d felt fiery wisps attach themselves to his bones, setting alight a trail of oil he’d carelessly left out by making the brash and negligent decision to care, really care about someone, had been in heaven. And what a time ago that had been. 

Something hitched underneath his skin, and a little gasp escaped his lips, inaudible, but alive, as his fight or flight response kicked in, and he had to struggle to remain seated, not looking at Sam, but panicking underneath the fading facade he’d thrown up in a desperate attempt to fake out the hunter into thinking he was taking this all in stride when in reality, he was freaking out. Sam’s facial muscles twitched slightly, head tilting at a minute difference in angle before he dropped his hands and opened his mouth, hurriedly backtracking. “Um. I need to go to bed.”

And I need a full-supply pharmacy of nothing but Xanax, thought the archangel, gulping once more before relaxing his body and replying, “Yeah, no kidding. Wow. You really are a lightweight.”

“‘Well, excuse me for not soiling my liver.” And the sass was back. Oh thank Father, Gabriel silently prayed, finally, for once in his life understanding the sweet, sweet joy of relief from being in one situation he couldn’t easily escape. 

“Heh. Don’t apologize for that, kiddo. There’s no shame in wanting to turn out differently than your dad.”

“Oh, is it that time of night already, where we talk about daddy issues?” Sam yawned, not losing his edge through the distortion. He scooted back up against the headboard, crossing his legs and placing his hands in his lap. Each blink he took was growing slower. He wasn’t going to last much longer like this. “Because I think this might be a conversation for a night where we are drinking coffee rather than alcohol.”

“Mm, I beg to differ. You seem much more honest drunk. And I’d much rather hear your actual opinions than whatever that facade you throw up for Dean has to say about the man.”

Sam scoffed. “I could say the same thing about you, except you aren’t drunk, for some reason.”

“Maybe I would be, if someone hadn’t downed ¾ of the whiskey before we even reached the middle mark of the film.”

“Haha. Very funny. It’s _my_ birthday, you know.” Sam reached up and pinched at the area of his forehead directly above his nose, where a headache was beginning to strike, and with force. “By the way, is that you admitting to the concept of you, drunk, even possible?” 

Although his perceptions were threading in and out of factual reality, he didn’t miss the look of momentary panic that ran over Gabriel’s face at his statement, something that the archangel took great care to amend before answering, “Oh please. Yeah, right. It would take several planets’ cores worth of hard liquor to even get me buzzed. Don’t be silly, Sammich.” 

A long silence fell between the two of them, where Gabriel averted his attention to his lap, before Sam finally replied, voice cracking, “I see right through you, you know.” 

The Trickster glanced up, not expecting to be in such close proximity to the younger Winchester, who, contrary to his previous, defeated stance of laying back against the headboard, had crawled up nearly silently and gotten, once more, uncomfortably close to the angel’s face in the time elapsed since they’d spoken, his eyes burning with some indeterminable emotion. Gabriel instinctively held his ground, but the sudden shift of the conversation had caught him offguard. 

“I beg your pardon?” he inquired, with not so much hostility as curiosity.

“You don’t know what’s going on with you either, do you?”

The angel’s gaze hardened, but he said nothing, which, for Sam, seemed to be all the information he needed to draw conclusions. 

“Yep. That’s what I thought.” 

Gabe kept his mouth shut, uncertain of how best to respond. Part of him wanted to come clean, a rarity for him, and agree, that truly, he hadn’t the slightest idea what could be going on with his battered wings and lack of strength as of late. But the majority, the sane part of him that knew better than to confide in this intoxicated human with a hero complex who gave less than a damn about him, was passionately screaming at him to keep his lips sealed, that this was his issue and only his to deal with. Bringing Sam into it would be a mistake, and knowing how overinvested the Winchesters got with problems, it would likely lead to someone becoming injured, soulless, trapped in Purgatory or dead. He knew this, from the bottom of his heart, and yet, he found himself talking, after the prolonged pause following the hunter’s announcement.

“I...thought that I knew, in my defense. But no, I don’t. I’ve never had issues like this before. Not for this long, at least.” 

Sam nodded, appearing notably more energetic with this new information. “Don’t worry,” he started immediately, causing the angel to cringe slightly, as he knew what was about to follow: the ol’ Winchester one-two, or as he called it, the empty promises speech. “We’re going to figure it out. Together, if that’s okay with you. I realize you’ve spent most of your life alone by choice, but listen, Gabe, you shouldn’t have to be alone in this. We’re here for you, if...if you need us.”

He loathed the sappiness of all of this. Sam was like that, though. An utter sap, by choice. It was sort of cute. “Thanks.” They were empty words, without much thought behind them. He knew the spiel was a lie, as much as his earlier admission of being fine had been. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that he was not a part of their family, and never would be, for a variety of reasons, and while Sam individually might not have been fibbing about having his back, he sincerely doubted Dean would follow in suit. And Cas? Cas was as on the fence as ever.

God, it was almost as if he’d completely forgotten he had a brother. It wasn’t Gabe’s place to be hurt because, damn, he’d done enough to deserve it, but it sure as hell didn’t stop him. He was halfway tempted to believe Cas wouldn’t help either if it came to it and Dean said no. He’d retreated back into the toxicity of their relationship, of their ‘profound bond,’ or whatever bullshit Cas had called it, eagerly supporting Dean in every venture, like if he didn’t, the guy would turn around and annul their marriage vows.

Now, Sam looked uncharacteristically thrilled with his response though, perhaps relieved he didn’t have to fight the battle of convincing the archangel to seek help, perhaps something else. But either way had him smiling, a small, indirect smile that didn’t quite reach its full potential and give him the Justice he deserved. It was all Gabriel had ever seen from him in all the time they’d known each other. Sad, really.

He would’ve put money on the hunter having a beautiful smile when he was actually happy.

“Chin up, Samsquatch,” he mumbled, reaching out and taking his index and middle fingers and placed them underneath the hunter’s jaw, gently pressuring upwards. “You’re alive. And that’s a blessing for all of us.” 

Sam snorted, letting out a few drunken giggles before leaning back against the bed frame. “Right. I’m sure I bring a lot to the table, with my killjoy attitude and, ‘stupid shopping habits,’ as Dean calls them. Apparently couponing is bad, in case you weren’t aware.”

“I was not. Also, you forgot the hair.”

“Ah, right, the hair. How could I possibly forget?”

Gabriel felt his lips turn upwards in a devious smirk, as he next spoke, “Let’s be honest though. Even if Dean had your long, lovely locks, he still wouldn’t compare. You’re a pretty good-looking moose, you know.”

He realized his error about as soon as the sentence slipped out, but was quickly soothed by the sight of aqua eyes peering at him from across the bed, still up to their corneas in whiskey, and that small smile from earlier making a comeback as the hunter responded curiously, “You think I’m good-looking?”

“...Maybe.” He shrugged nonchalantly. _Yes_ , was the honest answer he would give, if he were capable, and willing, but alas, tonight was not a night where he felt comfortable enough for _that_ conversation. 

“You should improve your standards then.” The sound was muffled as the hunter let out a laugh and nuzzled his face into the pillow nearest him. He was beginning to become less and less coherent as the conversation had worn on, and was now on the verge of collapsing into a sleepy abyss, from which he would hopefully not emerge until at least 9am the following morning, with a minor hangover.

“Nope. Sorry. No can do, Sammich. You’re pretty. You just gotta accept it and move on. Sorry, kid. I don’t make the rules.” 

He received an indistinguishable groan in response, a good enough cue to leave as any, and slipped off the quilt covering the bed, turning towards the door. “Happy birthday, Sam. Sleep well.”

As he took his first step in making his leave, he heard a quiet voice. “Wait. Gabriel.” Craning back around slowly, he found an incredibly heavy-eyed Moose leaning up against the headboard, barely propped up at all, with slow blinks the only evidence as his consciousness. It took a few seconds past his initial statement for him to continue. “Come back, for a second. I want to tell you something.”

The Trickster exhaled, exasperated, but indulged the request, walking to his bedside and leaning over. “This better be good, kiddo,” he muttered without venom, not at all expecting what came next.

There was nothing he’d learned in his countless years upon the Earth, or those spent in heaven, amongst the greats, and God himself, that could have prepared him to anticipate the sudden, lukewarm hands on his face, rough fingers tracing slightly over the outline of his lips before they were greeted tenderly with Sam’s own. He froze, all systems shutting down completely as he stood there, both in alarm and in some emotion he couldn’t immediately name off the top of his head. He’d forgotten the name of it from the moment warm flesh had made contact with his own, his entire train of thought slipping as the fingers extended, threading their way through his hair and tugging gently before releasing, the hunter’s falling backwards, back into the cushy surface of his pillow, eyes fighting to stay open. 

“Tastes like gold,” he murmured, each word more of a wisp in the wind as the archangel stood there, utterly still, and his eyes finally succumbed to the depth of sleep as it washed over him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve switched from editing everything in Word to using Google Docs, simply for the cross-platform compatibility. For example, I actually completed this chapter on my iPad, which I haven’t done since the very start of the Denial Twist. It’s almost nostalgic, in a way, writing on this thing. ^^ anywho. Why did Sam decide to impulsively act on his drunken thoughts? And more importantly, will he even remember them the next day? The mystery remains. As usual, I love reactions and feedback. ❤️


	7. The Morning After

The phantom trace of lips against his kept him well awake through the night and into the crisp, early dawn of the morning, tossing and turning through sweaty sheets. He couldn’t get the thought out of his mind, despite the circumstances, and the fact that he knew it meant nothing at all to the hunter peacefully sleeping a few rooms over. He could still feel the smooth caress of a rough hand against his cheek, pulling him deeper in before the whisper.

_Tastes like gold._

He shouldn’t have been stuck on it. There was nothing special about a drunken kiss from a tall, pretty boy moose. Especially one who oh-so happened to be a Winchester. Gabriel had seen the chaos that the duo had wrecked on Cas. What kind of masochist would willingly consider such a thing viable for himself after a stupid kiss? What kind of fool? What kind of idiot?

Apparently him. Because he had been musing over it for hours now, laying with eyes wide open, staring at the dusty, textured ceiling of his room in the Bunker. He hadn’t felt like this in millenia. Where there was more than lust, but an unspoken bond, a tense, coiled line of connection wrapping around their wrists that drew them closer together. Spending time with Sam made him feel happy, which was more than he could say for many of his past relationships. Things with Kali had alway lacked spice outside the bedroom, where she was so hateful towards him, he had to genuinely wonder whether or not she would attempt to murder him when his back was turned. And he found most other beings uninteresting; he’d been around since the beginning of time, so he’d already seen and done it all, double entendre intended. Nothing caught his eye anymore.

Until now, at least. And of course, it was a Winchester. Sure, he’d joked about the matter with Castiel the past year, about how he ‘had it for the big ones,’ clearly indicating Sam, but the Trickster had never truly come to terms with the idea of the guy initiating physical, intimate contact with him a reality. He’d thought Sam was completely straight, a far cry from his older sibling, who was always throwing glances at Castiel’s butt when he assumed no one was looking. It was very heterosexual of Dean, truly, and remained yet another piece of the puzzling fact that it had taken the guy a good ten years to come to terms with his sexuality, somehow. But Sam, Sam had never given any indication of preference towards another gender than the women he dated, all of whom had perished in numerous, awful ways. 

Perhaps he was seeing how the other half lived as a result of that. Gabriel groaned, stopping him short of a follow-up, reminded that he was getting way ahead of himself. _What am I? A teenage girl with a crush?_ He thought asininely to himself. _Pining? Really? To what level must I descend before I hit rock bottom?_

Losing his feathers apparently wasn’t enough. He had to develop budding feelings for his brother-in-law. Nice. Gabriel groaned, flinging his hands over his face and tugging at the skin, melodramatic as always before sitting up and taking a read on the clock. 6:57 AM. It was still far too early to realistically be up, but he slid off the sheets anyway, flinging a blanket over his shoulders like a cape and waltzing down the hallway into the kitchen. 

To his surprise, he was not the only soul upright and walking in the house, although he greatly wished he were once recognizing that gargantuan form and messy but beautiful mop belonging to a very bleary-eyed moose that turned at the sound of his entrance. Sam blinked a few times, red-rimmed eyes squinting as he struggled to catch up with the proceedings. “Gabriel?”

“Good morning, Samsquatch,” the archangel managed to croak, convincing enough to pass for normal to the hungover giant across the island. When the hunter smiled in response, however, his facade nearly crumbled as his insides physically melted all over one another, instantly warmed by the sight. _I’m pathetic,_ he thought with a pang. _So what if he’s got a ridiculously cute smile? What does that matter?_

“You’re up early,” he replied, hands moving slowly to pour a pitcher of coffee into one of the many mugs from the cabinet nearest the fridge.

“Me? You’re the one who got more sloshed than a full frat house last night.”

Sam chuckled into his coffee. The sound seemed to echo off Gabriel’s heart, reverberating around his chest as he swallowed heavily. The Winchester took a sip of his beverage. “True, but I wake up at the same time everyday, or, at least I try to. We don’t get a whole lot of consistency in our lives with being hunters, so I control what I can.”

“You couldn’t take a day for yourself?” 

Sam shook his head, expression contorting slightly before reforming into that smile once more. “Nah.” Placing his cup back on the counter in front of him, he gave the archangel his complete attention, fully opening aqua eyes to peer at him from several feet away. Gabriel was finding it very difficult to remember that he had to breathe in order to survive. “Why are you up so early? Normally I’d be pulling you, kicking and screaming, from your bed at noon.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” It was sort of honest, he figured. Barely. He was omitting the reason why, mainly because he was talking to said reason, but it was still an answer. Unfortunately, the sickening pit of mushy, gushy emotions swishing from side to side in his midriff hadn’t been eased at all by seeing the Moose in the kitchen and engaging in conversation with him. If anything, it had made it worse.

In a way, he’d been hoping that maybe he could discount all of the hunter’s rewarding, attractive character traits as being romanticism after the fact, but no, he just had to still be perfect in the morning, taking tiny sips of black coffee from a mug emblazoned with the Denny’s logo that was no doubt stolen many years ago when no one was looking. He was breathtakingly stunning for a human being and Gabriel hated it. He hated every part of it. Because he knew how this would end, and it wouldn’t be well.

Just another nail in his coffin, and another emotion to suppress under anger and snark. Because he was a mess, and difficult to love, if not impossible, because of not just who he was but what. True, he wasn’t much of an angel in reality, with his torn, bloody feathers, hanging like fragments of ripped curtain from his bones, but the name was still his. Gabriel, the messenger. The herald of heaven. The glorified horn player, silvertongue, whose words were sharper than any blade. The youngest of the archangels, all of whom were far above humanly stations, blessed with the powerful grace of God and trauma of equal volume.

None of them were supposed to be loved. They were soldiers, warriors of God, not intended for anything beyond their figurehead duties and a few, under-the-table, dirty deeds requested by the G-man himself, such as dealing with Lucifer and Amara. They were not made to be adored, or even liked. He wasn’t crafted for this purpose, and yet he craved the attention of others. Always had, really. His father often seemed to conveniently forget that he had more than his two firstborn and humanity. Raphael and him had been pushed aside on countless occasions to make way for Lucifer and Michael’s petty fighting. 

Of course, he couldn’t wallow too much, lest he bask in it. He could’ve spoken up. He could’ve done more. He just chose not to. He hadn’t wanted to rock the boat, even though he knew, deep down, that their cruise had always been destined for a Titanic-esque fate, ever since Lucifer had taken on the Mark and God had asked them to collect the dust for Adam’s creation. It was ridiculous of him to assume that his siblings could work out their issues, knowing how they’d been raised. How they’d been praised and doted upon. It was naive, hopeful thinking, that one day he would be able to distinguish himself as more than just a glorified, mouthy trumpeter with one set of wings that was slightly less golden than the others. He’d never really tried. He’d just hoped that someday, someone would pick him out of the backdrop and recognize that he existed.

“Gabriel?” 

The sound of his name being uttered by a familiar voice pulled him back into reality. “Yes?” he responded quickly, devoid of tone as he looked up and found Sam making painfully concerned eyes at him. His heart ached momentarily before he averted his gaze, waiting for the hunter to reply with whatever he wanted from him.

“Would you like some coffee? I saw this new brand at the store that is supposed to taste like donuts and thought you might like it. It probably won’t taste like candy, but it was the closest thing I could find.”

His breath hitched in his throat as he managed to nod, forcing a tight-lipped grin at the bright-eyed Winchester, who seemed all too eager to turn back and around and begin preparation on the sweet breakfast drink. Gabe exhaled heavily a moment later, taking care to keep the sound light. His entire body seemed to sink with the air leaving his nostrils. 

He was perfect. That’s why he was hung up on this. 

It was a struggle, but he tried to think positively. Maybe he could suppress this, like he suppressed everything else. He’d never had to strap down this kind of feeling before, but it could be done, no doubt. Hell, Cas and Dean had gone years without admitting their feelings to one another; surely Gabriel could last a few more months. 

Eventually, he would get his mojo back, and his feathers would resew themselves to the damaged, brittle framework of his wings, so he could leave. Where he would go, he wasn’t yet certain, but he’d already overstayed his welcome with the brothers, not because they’d said so, but because it was policy. Team Free Will was Team Free Will, and that was Sam, Cas and Dean. Gabriel was not a self-described team player. It made more sense for him to get out on his own. Yes. That made sense.

And then, conveniently, he’d be out from underneath the thumb of the torturous reality where he would no doubt fall in love with someone who’d never want him. He could avoid it more effectively in a universe where it did not linger in his face, flashing him a dazzling smile in the morning, with perfect hair and kind words, and that, that he could live with. That future was one he found to be acceptable. 

A peculiarly-shaped mug was set in front of him then, filled to the brim with a light, caramel-colored liquid that sent out vibrations across its surface as the cup made contact with the countertop. “Let me know if you want more sugar or creamer. I took a guess as to what you might like, but I could be wrong.”

Doubtful, Gabriel thought to himself wryly, gripping the mug with nervous fingers and raising it to his lips. The taste, although not as sweet as he was accustomed to, was not bad. The Moose hit the nail on the head with his estimate of Gabriel’s taste. Despite not being a huge fan of coffee, the blend of sugar and milk on his tongue seemed at perfect harmony with one another, as though they were at an ideal proportion of each. It would figure, knowing his situation. 

The damn kid had to be great at everything, of course. And so damn nice. Why the hell was he so nice? And to him, no less? Dean still treated Gabriel with the discretionary equivalent of a hazmat suit, keeping his distance in both his emotions and his physical self. He was smart to do so, at least, whilst Gabriel had still had his working wings, and could flap them without spikes of pain shooting through his body like he was being repeatedly stabbed in the nerves. Archangels were terrifying, breathtaking forces of nature. The Winchesters had witnessed him slaughter countless creatures without hesitation before, some without so much as lifting a finger. He was a monster.

And then there was Sam Winchester, vessel to the Devil, somehow, and pure as could be considering what hell he’d been put through, eagerly eying his expression from across the kitchen, walking over after a second of silence, and wrapping his hands around the cup currently in the Trickster’s grip. As their fingers brushed one another, the archangel about dropped the mug entirely, his eyes fixated solely on the indistinguishable aqua of those watching him. It took him a second to realize Sam was speaking.

“Is it okay? Do you need more sugar?”

_Only from you_ , he would’ve said, if this were some cheap, convenient hook-up in a bar, where there were no consequences and real emotions, and he could actually identify witty words underneath frozen, slightly chapped lips that wanted nothing more than to be vigorously pressed against the hunter’s again, testing to see if last night was a fluke. If flukes existed. If the kiss was a heat of the moment thing, loathe though he was to say it. But alas.

“N-no. Thanks.” 

Like that, Sam dropped his hands with a small, forced smile and turned back to the coffee machine, some cheap, old model they’d found at a yard sale a few months ago in Johnstown, PA for under ten dollars. Gabe exhaled, physically feeling the thousand-pound burden that was his life sink with his shoulders. 

This was going to be miserable. He took another sip from his cup, attempting to shove his thoughts underneath the rug in his mind, glancing around for something--anything--to distract him from the goblin in his brain screaming at him to just fucking _tell him, so you can get this over with_. It had a point, unfortunately, one that he was desperately avoiding in the name of preserving the peace, not just for the sake of protecting his own incredibly weak and admittedly fragile heart. He didn’t want to give the hunters any other reason to have their lives upset by him. Losing his grace was bad enough for everyone. He needed to keep his mouth shut about caring for Sam, because it was best for everyone involved.

Regardless, he had to suffer. This was simply the longer detour.

The silence in the kitchen remained for a few minutes longer, as the younger of the two Winchesters wiped down the counters, straightening up various articles above it in a mannerism Gabe could only call humorously fussy. Once finished, he again lifted the Denny’s mug to his lips, letting the final gulp of coffee travel down his throat before setting it in the sink and speaking, “So, um...I was thinking...and...um…” 

It was unlike him not to make eye contact, which had Gabriel jumping in before the Moose even had the opportunity to complete his sentence, assuming he would ever wind up there. “Yeah?” 

Sam glanced up at his interjection, nearly shy in his reaction as he looked almost immediately back down then at anything that didn’t happen to be the Trickster standing across from him. “I-I had this really weird dream last night.” At the raised brows he received in response, he quickly added, “Not like Lucifer-weird. But Jess was there, again, just like before. And this time, my phone rang, and when I answered it, I heard my dad on the other line. He kept talking about leaving the door unlocked.”

“The door?” Gabriel asked, curious.

“I don’t know what he meant. But before he hung up, he said not to worry, that they were coming, and it was like...I don’t know. There was this feeling in my gut all of the sudden, and it hit me like a train right then, like he was telling the truth. I know it’s all a bunch of nonsense, and you’re probably thinking that I’ve totally lost it, but something is going on. I’ve never had that much physical awareness during a dream before.”

“Kiddo, you lost it years ago,” the light-haired archangel replied, cocking his head to the side as he took a step forward, eyes unable to break contact with how stressed out the hunter appeared to be about the situation. The torture was starting early. He wanted to reach out and touch him, reassure him somehow, but restrained himself. “Although, all of that does sound unusual. Maybe it was all that alcohol. You remember anything else?”

_Like kissing someone, perhaps? And maybe really enjoying it? Mumbling something about a certain color that may or may not have matched the wings of the person kissed?_

Then again, if Gabriel were in his position, he wouldn’t admit to it, regardless of what he remembered. Who would want to recall initiating mouth-to-mouth with a selfish, powerless archangel who hardly ever told the truth? He sure as hell wouldn’t.

“No.” Sam shook his head, glancing down just a tad too quickly for the Trickster’s taste. Maybe he did recall. Or perhaps it was something else. Either way, his heart had sunk to somewhere around his knees, and it must have shown on his face accidentally, because when Sam next looked up, it was with a concerned, “Why? Is there something I should remember? Please tell me Dean didn’t videotape me dancing on top of a table or something.”

“Mm, I think he was a little preoccupied for that, if you catch my drift. Maybe doing a little table dancing himself for Cas...if you know what I mean.”

Sam laughed, oblivious to the deflective remark. It was fortunate. He didn’t deserve to have to know. With a heart as heavy as his, he didn’t deserve to have to handle the burden of anything else, regardless of Gabriel’s feelings. He hated this. Part of caring meant that it went beyond physicality, and the totaled up to his refusal to let anything harm the hunter that he could stop. 

And Sam Winchester felt guilty for enough things in his life. This was one he could do without having to manage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes love is taking one for the team. Wait, did I say love? Whoops. That was premature.
> 
> ...maybe.


	8. No Sugar in My Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean doesn't know what's more concerning at this point: Hannah coming to the Bunker, Sam and Gabe and whatever the _hell_ is happening there, or the fact that Raphael is apparently the new high king of the not-so-holy kingdom of heaven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is being posted un-edited, but when I make the 10 chapter marker, I will be going back through and making necessary changes to all of them that need it. That being said, I don't think I missed anything according to Docs, but what do I know?

“Hannah.”

“Castiel.”

_This shit again_ , Dean mused bitterly at the sound of their voices, so painstakingly polite that were he not standing there, taking in the sight for himself, he might have almost missed the longing stare that the female angel was giving his husband, her dark, stringy bangs hanging just over her brows like vines, and her lips slightly pursed, as though she were considering some matter in the back of her mind. He could only imagine as to what. Castiel was as clueless as ever, appearing formally to anyone who didn’t know him, with his straightened back and hands in the pockets of his trenchcoat, an indeterminable storm brewin behind oceanic eyes, but this was a lie. Castiel was always excessively formal, and generally polite in his posture and greetings, partially because he was, unlike Dean, not predisposed to being an asshole, and partially because he didn’t know any better.

He was unaware, which was both fortunate and yet also not, because while it excused Cas’s continued conversations with her as innocent, it also incensed Dean to the point of wanting to jam his fist in the wall. There was clearly a ring on Cas’s finger. He was seeing one. Did she? “Do you see a ring?” he mumbled sarcastically across the table, where Sam was sitting, thumbing through a novel of some kind. His brother barely glanced up, unconcerned with the issue.

“Hm?”

He groaned as a form of response. “Why did it have to be her? Couldn’t Balthazar have come instead?”

Gabriel, who was seated beside his brother, with his feet kicked up on the other end of the table, interrupted, “Probably,” to which Sam merely shrugged, exhaling a small sigh as though it was of little concern to him. “But,” the archangel continued, lowering his volume to a level Dean was frankly surprised that he had, “I imagine Hannah volunteered. Y’know. She was always very forward. And I’d be careful, Dean-o. I’m no expert but it doesn’t look like she’s about to put the brakes on anytime soon when it comes to giving Cas the bedroom eyes.”

Dean huffed, grumbling some choice expletives under his breath and turned away, leaning over slightly to check up on his angel and Hannah once more. They spoke at a normal distance apart. And Cas was as deadpan and serious as usual. In fact, if it weren’t for the lingering looks and fluttering eyelashes from the woman in the pantsuit, Dean wouldn’t have batted an eye. And he knew, deep down, that he shouldn’t have been concerned at all; Cas would never cheat on him, knowingly or unknowingly. It simply wasn’t in his nature. But Dean couldn’t shake the jealousy slithering over him and tightening its grip on his heart. It was insecurity at its finest.

He wasn’t good enough for Cas. He’d known that for as long as he’d known the guy in general. He didn’t even come moderately close, which had been why he’d hesitated to act on the feelings he’d experienced around the angel for the past ten years, and why he was currently standing in the study, tensely hunched into an aggressive pose with his arms crossed and his back to the scene behind him, which frankly, should have held his attention more than it did. Dean didn’t need to worry about Cas. What he did need to worry about was whatever the hell was happening between Sam and Gabe, something that he’d been giving little effort to try and understand, mostly because he didn’t expect to gain any real insight from it.

Even their father, a man perceptive to nothing when it came to his sons’ feelings and nuances, would have been up in his younger brother’s business as of late. It was hard to miss, how close the two had gotten over the past couple weeks. And that was definitely Dean and Cas’s fault to some extent, simply because they had been exceptionally invested in, ah, several facets of their relationship, maybe too much, to the point where both Gabriel and Sam felt like they were being excluded. And he was okay with his brother befriending the smartass archangel; that wasn’t it at all. He was merely alarmed by how rapidly that friendship seemed to blossom, and what exactly it was blossoming into. Because lately? It seemed more like the intro to an awkward, amateur porno than friendship. Normal people didn’t touch that much.

He’d been in the closet for ten years. He _knew_ what it looked like. 

Reluctantly, he tore his gaze away from Cas’s lips mumbling something that was likely business-related to Hannah, and whirled back around and planting a hand over the back of the chair nearest him, giving Sam and Gabe a good onceover. There hadn’t yet been any funny business today. Maybe they were playing an elaborate joke on him. He would expect that from Gabriel, considering that his default setting was asshole, but Sam wasn’t usually the type. His brother generally had better things to do than participate in the Trickster’s harebrained shenanigans, so that ruled that out as a possibility, leaving...well... _that._

Which, there was no real chance of that being valid, considering that in the 30, 40 years he’d known his brother, the guy had never dated a dude, or anything resembling it. And while Sam was not averse to homosexuality (obviously--it had been Sam consistently harassing him to admit to being in love with Cas for years), Dean still couldn’t find any precedents to suggest that whatever weird shit he’d witnessed over the past few days had any root in romance. Aside from that, if Sam did have a type, it certainly didn’t fit the personality of the Trickster. The guy was the antithesis, almost. He was obnoxious, melodramatic, and lied simply for the hell of it, or so it seemed. He could also barely reach the hunter’s face, not that that was a dealbreaker.

It was difficult to make sense of this week without at least acknowledging attraction as a possibility though. He’d spotted the two curled up on the sofa the night before, a plaid blanket draped around them, because yes, the Bunker had been getting colder with the sudden influx of bizarre weather changes in the U.S., but those two were more intertwined across each other’s bodies than him and Cas most days, and that was weird. All of it was weird. Sam and Gabe. Hannah’s increased presence in the Bunker, and how often she felt the need to talk to and look at and make faces at Cas. It was weird and he hated it.

“Dean?”

Sam was speaking, brows furrowed in concern as he leaned over the table, book closed in front of him. Dean swallowed, gathering his bearings and struggling not to take another look back at Cas and Hannah before responding, “Yeah?”

Sam nodded in his direction albeit slightly left, and Dean, mystified, turned to suddenly find that Cas had appeared beside him, grimly stoic. He whirled around, searching for Hannah to no avail, then asking, “What’s up?”

“Raphael has taken control of heaven.”

The room, if not silent before, was sucked of sound at the end of that sentence, Dean felt himself sharply inhaled, unable to keep his eyes off the angel, not for how breathtaking Cas was in this moment, but for how much anxiety washed over him in that moment for the angel. It cascaded down on his shoulders with all the gracefulness of a couple thousand boulders the fact that Cas was in danger, unless Raphael had just happened to go and magically forget where Cas had killed him with a snap of his fingers whilst controlling the Leviathan.

It didn’t show on the angel’s face, his worry, but Dean was certain that he was trembling beneath the surface, and if not, he was too busy believing that maybe he deserved that death by Raphael’s hand, since he had brought the Leviathan back into this realm, which was worse.

“Raphael?” Sam questioned, raising his eyebrows. As Cas nodded in reply, Dean saw his brother’s shoulders sink, and his eyes dart to his side, where Gabriel was staring mutely into the table, expression unexpectedly sullen. The hunter’s gaze lingered for a few seconds too long, before returning to Cas’s stiff frame. “Okay. Well, that’s...not great. This is what Hannah told you, right? Did she say anything else?”

“She doesn’t know anything else right now,” Cas said softly, not meeting his eyes. The hunter beside him instinctively placed a hand on his back, eliciting a sharp jolt in the angel as he involuntarily straightened up, glancing at Dean curiously.

“Look, whatever it is, we’ll deal with it. Hell, we dispelled the apocalypse and killed a Knight of Hell. I think we can handle a power-hungry teenage mutant ninja turtle.”

Cas offered him only a small smile in response. It was a visible lie, not so much spoken as shown. “Right,” he replied, as Dean pulled him close, fully wrapping an arm around his waist, voice still as soft as before.

“Aside from that, we also have a little secret weapon of our own, this time around. Gabriel?”

The archangel’s whiskey-tinted gaze shot up immediately, confusion visible in his eyes for a few moments before melting into an oddly smooth satisfaction. Sam’s reaction didn’t escape his brother’s attention however, as the younger Winchester’s eyes traveled the Trickster’s face with concern, saying nothing. “Yep! Nothing to worry about, Cassie. Big bro’s got this one.” He leaned back in his chair, a smarmy grin taking over his features as he folded his hands behind his head. Sam’s expression, however, didn’t relax, and if anything, worsened in severity.

Cas shifted beside Dean, avoiding the eyes all fixed on him, awaiting some kind of response to confirm or deny the validity of that option, and leaned slightly more into the hunter’s shoulder for support, which Dean very eagerly gave by tightening his grip around the trenchcoated angel. He had meant what he said. Raphael, unless he was pulling some world altering stunt to rival the Apocalypse, was no match for them. They’d dealt with so much worse; whatever he was planning wouldn’t even compare. Plus, they had Gabriel now, who, despite his lax attitude towards hunting as of late, was more than capable to take his brother down a peg, or four. 

Probably. Gabriel had perished at Elysian Fields Hotel years ago when he had gone head-to-head with Lucifer, but then, Lucifer was an exception to most rules, somehow. The Colt hadn’t done more than tickle the guy. He was an anomaly, and Dean had had plenty of experiences--somewhere between 155 and 1000--to justify Gabriel having the strength to give Raphael a run for his money. He had ventured to think, preceding their predicament at Hotel Hell, perhaps, that he was even strong enough to take on Lucifer and stand a decent chance at winning, but evidently not.

...Assuming he didn’t throw the competition. 

It was nothing more than a hunch, and for that matter, a hunch he would never bring up to Cas, because it would stress him out and he couldn’t keep a secret anyway, but the hunter had enough reason to believe that perhaps his ‘death,’ was no accident at all. The guy was self-loathing but also self-serving. And he’d fooled the Winchesters more than a time or two, which was impressive considering their extensive resume in monster-hunting. It wasn’t such a stretch to think that perhaps he had duped them again and then lied to Cas as a form of starting over. They’d never gotten the real backstory as to how exactly he’d risen from the grave, so it was difficult to go on, but even if they did, it wouldn’t matter. He was literally the Trickster. To catch him in a lie would be an unnecessary amount of effort for all of them, especially since they didn’t need leverage on him to get him to comply.

“Did Hannah mention anything else?” 

Sam was asking. He’d stood up in the time that had elapsed while Dean was in thought, and taken to remaining idle behind his previous seat, one hand over the arched, wooden back. Gabriel had stiffened at the action, dropping his feet from their placement on the table and sitting up straight, face unreadable. 

“Yes. Just one thing.” Cas, in contrast to his last move towards Dean, now separated from the hunter, walking briskly around the table as he spoke, words broken apart as he reached for the bookcase, fingers scanning titles until he eventually pulled one from its entombment and laid it open on the table next to Sam. “The information comes from Balthazar, but he is in hiding, since Raphael has taken the throne, and couldn’t come to meet me without compromising his current position.”

Gabe eagerly scooted over, at first with his chair, then abruptly standing and side-stepping it to sit where Sam had been. The hunter released his hand on the chair immediately, before letting the archangel settle back into it comfortably, and replacing it. Cas continued flipping frantically through pages, fingers peeling back weathered pieces of paper to finally come across whatever it was he wanted, as he halted, then straightened the book and glanced up at Dean to explain.

“We need to find Michael’s Lance. According to Hannah, Balthazar mentioned acquiring it years ago through a bet with the right-hand for one of the Princes of Hell.” The angel paused briefly, a look of pure guilt rolling over his face for a moment before he continued, “After his death, however, it disappeared for a few years, and he has only just now been able to track it to an identifiable location. It has, evidently, been identified as some kind of human artifact by your species, and now is residing at a pawn shop in North Dakota.”

“Wow,” Gabriel breathed, eyes widening as a huge grin spread across his face. “That’s just...that’s just rich. My older brother, the crown prince of Heaven, and his holy, all-powerful lance, demoted to a padded cell and a pawn shop. Incredible. Well, I guess karma bites after all.” He shrugged, appearing pleased with this information.

Dean, however, was lost. “Michael’s lance? As in, Michael-Michael’s lance? And it’s...in a pawn shop? Okay. Weird, but okay. Why do we need it?”

“It’s one of the most powerful weapons in Heaven. One of four, specifically, created by God for his firstborn sons.” 

All eyes in the room seemed to automatically grow to rest on the only person in that room who knew intimate details about such matters, but Gabe merely inquired, “What? Looking for some kind of backstory? I don’t have any. Michael and Lucifer were the only two to receive any kind of real weapon, anyway. Raphael has a necromancer staff. Can bring people back from the dead. And I got a loud, misshapen hunk of brass. What are we doing with this thing?” 

“Killing Raphael,” Cas said in a gravelly tone, as if the words were the most natural thing in the world to utter offhand.

“But we have the archangel blade. And the archangel. Can’t we just go with that plan?” Dean was having issues making ends meet with this logic. It wasn’t bad, necessarily, to have the lance, for future cases. But at the moment? They had the weapon and the warrior to handle it if need be. What was the relevancy of this to the current issue?

“Mm...well, I think Cas is making a contingency plan in case I get my ass handed to me again and end up bleeding out on a hotel floor again. Which, for the record, is not cool. I can handle it, Castiel.” Gabriel’s voice dropped any semblance of humor at the last sentence, and his eyes shot daggers at the angel hovering over the book, lips firmly set in a straight line. 

“I don’t think it’s bad to have a back-up plan,” Sam said softly, immediately earning an equally sharp glare from the Trickster, but he paid it no mind, releasing his grip on the back of the chair and looking from Cas to Dean. “And if it is with us, at least it won’t be with him.”

“I _guess_ that’s a good point,” Gabe muttered asininely.

The older Winchester exhaled, glancing down at his feet and then back up again, taking in the scene once more before speaking. “Okay. Sounds like a plan. North Dakota. And you’re coming with us this time, feathers.” This was directed at the archangel solely, who merely rolled his eyes like an unenthused teen. “None of this ‘holding down the fort’ bullshit you’ve been pulling lately. If we run into trouble, we need you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever. I'll pack a bag and get a travel guide.”

Dean didn’t miss the concern on his brother’s face. 

_Yep. Definitely weird._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys are on their way to a pawn shop to retrieve Mike's Death-Stick, and Dean is suspicious of everything around him. It's about as happy an ending as a chapter can get. Just kidding! There's still a good bit of fluff left in the next few chapters before everything goes to hell--metaphorically, not literally. Til next time, folks!


	9. Rag and Bone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's like Pawn Stars, but with sexual tension, sentiment, and a weird shopkeeper who never left the 80s and is the embodiment of the 'hey, ol' buddy, ol' pal, ol' buddy' meme on accident. Note: I have never seen Pawn Stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya, folks! I am high on Red Bull, manic energy, and the rush of binge watching Black Panther, Spider-Man Homecoming, and all of Kings of Con in one day as I write this, but don't let that scare you too much. The latter of those has actually motivated me to write this a whole lot more, because man, somehow writing Gabriel was really easy in the Denial Twist, because I feel like the necessary traits to form characterization were available in canon, but this story? Nah. This is uncharted territory. ~~S/n: fuck season 13. this is not what I meant by stop hurting my boi.~~ That being said, I am trying, and hopefully succeeding in writing a sympathetic but still acceptably hesitant to engage Gabe, and a moving, hero complex Sam who wants nothing more than just for everyone to be okay and alive and healthy. Thanks for the support, folks! I love to hear back from y'all about how you feel!

Devil’s Lake, North Dakota was colder than Gabriel had been anticipating.

Granted, he hadn’t even wanted to go, but then, refusing the journey with the vigor he wanted to would have aroused suspicion, and the last thing he needed was Dean’s paranoia kicking into overdrive and this terrible plan of theirs toppling over because he snuck his nose in matters that were of no concern to him. Namely, Gabriel’s grace, which had not so much slipped out of his body than abruptly poofed, leaving him close to defenseless, and worse off, he’d been foolish enough to admit weakness to the younger of the two brothers, which was another reason why he was miserable, standing in the middle of the large, multi-roomed pawn shop they’d come to in their search for Michael’s spear. And yes, contrary to what his brother had pompously announced upon receiving it, it was, in fact, a spear, and not a lance. 

But that wasn’t important. Was it the reason for their visit? Sure. But Gabriel couldn’t have given a shit about that if he tried. There were far more pressing matters at hand, like Raphael picking up his father’s beaten, cracked crown in heaven, and how Dean intended to go at the guy with the archangelic powers Team Free Will didn’t have, and the piteous, albeit judgmental looks Sam had been giving him ever since finding out that very fact. They were impossible to evade, those eyes, and they made him regret ever being stupid enough to open the kimono with the younger of the two hunters where his wings were concerned.

It was extremely interesting, what Sam chose to remember about his birthday. Drinking most of their whiskey during a trashy Nicholas Cage film? Check. Being obliged the unique chance to see the true, physical wings of an archangel, damaged though they were? Check. Getting aforementioned being to admit weakness and confusion regarding his condition? Yep. Check. Drunkenly kissing said being and then promptly passing out, leaving an archangel to forever lament and panic about the fact that he cares about him? Nope. Nada. Nothing.

He would’ve been frustrated, trying to suss out the meaning of it all, if he weren’t so damn tired. But there was something about surviving on the last few inklings of grace in his body that had him exhausted. Not that it made him less angry about any part of this, but he was too tired to fight multiple battles at a time and lose, so he picked his focuses, and right now, his grace won out for importance, including the delicate game of Russian roulette he was playing with Sam’s integrity.

Fortunately, he’d been able to avoid the younger Winchester thus far today, and had succeeded in faking out Cas’s abrupt, sudden interest in his well-being using what very little remained of his power to fluff up his wings and make him seem under the weather at worst, but it wasn’t ten minutes into their pawn shop stop and Dean and Cas had split up, leaving him and Sam to cover the other half of the store in search of the lance, of course, because he couldn’t run away forever.

He was tied into their toxic little knot now. There was no escape.

The room’s eerie quietness was amplified by the clusterfuck of objects surrounding them, all soundless and with no real order to their placement. It was merely his own breathing, as well as Sam’s, that left even a trace of life in the silence. The shopkeeper was nowhere to be found, interestingly enough. And that was likely suspicious, and something he was going to lead with in the conversation he was going to force on the hunter in lieu of talking about that which must not be named. 

Unfortunately, however, Sam beat him to it. “I’m telling him,” he started, as soon as Dean and Cas had disappeared through the doorway and were a safe distance away. Gabriel hadn’t so much as opened his mouth with a rebuttal before he continued, stepping in front of the Trickster and speaking with his hands, as he sometimes did whenever stressed out.

It was something that Gabe had noticed in the past couple months. It was small, but important, he thought. The little things that Sam did, like how he couldn’t take a compliment about his worth as a person, but mentioning his appearance caused him to clam up and embarrassedly respond with quiet words and an ever quieter smile, and how he oftentimes considered even the unnecessary work more important than sleeping, although, that situation had certainly improved since Mardi Gras. 

They were cute things. And he was as good as fucked for noticing them, and continuing to care even after he promised himself he would try to stop. But he needed to leave in order to do that, because everyday, it seemed like Sam got more and more perfect. And instead of physically shying away from the Trickster, like he did with most people, he’d become more inviting, if that was somehow possible. That made it incomparably worse. How the hell was he supposed to ignore his feelings if the Moose kept doing things to make them flare up and give him metaphorical heartburn? He was as good as dead at this point, between his defeathered wings and Sam continuing to be, well, just himself. Speaking of, he had been talking for the past few moments, where Gabriel had elected not to listen, instead staring at the kid’s hands as he frantically mumbled some kind of frazzled, insincere apology, and attempted to apply a logical basis to his decision. 

“There’s just no way where this doesn’t explode for either one of us. Unless we can find a way to fix your grace in the next day or so, which seems impossible seeing as I don’t even know where to start, then this is how it has to be. You can’t take on Raphael with the state you’re in, lance or not, and Dean needs to know that so that we can plan around it.”

While he wasn’t particularly inclined to any part of what was happening, the Trickster did know one thing for certain, and that was that Sam was majorly jumping the gun. “Whoa, slow down there, Samsquatch. There’s no need to be so hasty. Who is to say that my grace might not just sporadically decide to reappear tomorrow, hence solving all our problems? And aside from that, do you really want to be the one to tell your brother that you’re keeping me in the house, despite the fact that I’m dead weight?”

The hunter looked highly displeased with his response, mouth set into a firm straight line, and his eyebrows knit into the glaring bitchface that he was known for. “You’re not deadweight. But you’re also not in good enough health to fight Raphael, and I don’t want you, or anyone else to get hurt. So, yes, regardless of how it impacts the plan, I’m telling him. And, obviously, Cas will hear it too, although, to be honest, it shouldn’t be coming from me.”

The implication that Gabe should have been doing the majority of this himself didn’t slip past him, but he did actively choose to mostly ignore it, focusing on trying to appease Sam at least for the next few days, so that he could avoid this a little longer. The last thing he wanted were the looks of pity that would be thrown his way by Cas and Dean, followed up by the frustrated and agitated comments that would follow when he couldn’t prove any usefulness beyond his nonexistent powers. Sam may have said that he wasn’t dead weight, but that didn’t make it true, and in all honesty, the hunter was probably lying anyway to spare his feelings. He wasn’t much beyond a husk of your garden variety angel without his grace, and that made him both insecure and spiteful. 

If he had no usefulness in this situation, the likelihood that he would be able to continue to stay with the Winchesters was slim, because all he would be doing is quarreling with them, and that was just a waste of time they didn’t have. Cas wouldn’t fight for him to stay, either. Not if Dean didn’t want him to. So, he would go. Somewhere, he supposed. He had no other home to speak of, except for heaven, and he was anything but welcomed there, even without Raphael’s interference. 

He hated it, but he wasn’t worth anything in his current predicament. And if Sam was deadset on revealing his secret, than he couldn’t do anything but wait for the fallout. The hopelessness he’d felt recently was all-encompassing, and it kept him from battling against the tides of misfortune, such as the situation they were in now. There wasn’t much point in putting up a fight like this, where he knew the hunter was right, and he would be putting others in danger with his selfishness.

He would just have to learn to love the anger he was going to be met with for keeping it a secret in the first place, not that anyone in the Bunker had the right. They were all just as bad as him with harboring truths unbeknownst to anyone but them.

“Gabriel.” The archangel had lost his sense of presence amongst his thoughts, and was rudely reminded of reality with the sensation of hands gripping his shoulders, and a set of indeterminable aqua eyes staring at him with concern. Sam looked genuinely worried about him. It was a convincing facade. But he knew better. “Hey. I know that it’s not your first choice. I’m sorry. But we’re still going to find a way for you to get your grace back. This isn’t over.”

“Right,” he muttered, not bothering to even meet the Moose’s gaze, and nudging away from the hunter. He swallowed a lump of emotions before straightening his jacket, which was barely fulfilling its duty of keeping him warm in these frigid temperatures, and clearing his throat. “Let’s find this stupid spear.” 

“You mean lance?”

“No, I mean spear. My brother is a pompous jackass who literally created horses just so he could call it a lance rather than a spear. Because apparently, ‘spears are barbaric,’ or something. Who fucking knows? Let’s just get this over with.”

When he glanced up to briefly capture Sam’s expression before edging towards the desk, intent on slamming his hand repeatedly down on the bell like a child in the middle of a temper tantrum, he found the same troubled face that had been looking at him moments ago, where the concern had yet to erode from his features despite the need for it disappearing. He didn’t need to fake caring about the matter anymore, and yet, he obviously intended to carry through. Either that, or he actually did give a damn about Gabe.

Unlikely. He hurriedly turned his attention to the unattended front desk, peering down at the artifacts within the glass casings as a distraction from the pain in his chest at the idea. Yeah right. He knew better. Getting his hopes up was a mistake, regardless of where the evidence pointed. 

He heard the light sounds of footsteps follow behind him, quickly succeeded by the presence of the Moose as he leaned over the glass, speaking. “What does it look like?”

“Like a spear. I don’t know? Nothing special. It has ritual binding in the woodwork, so there’s a dead giveaway.”

He could feel those aqua eyes watching him with apprehension, as though he were liable to explode at any given moment. It was disgusting, this illusion. Gabe knew better than to actually think that the hunter cared about him anymore than as a means to an end for this mission, and if he hadn’t initially been such a crucial part of Cas reentering their lives, he doubted he would’ve been treated with even this amount of false hospitality, from Sam or Dean. He was vulnerable enough with his broken wings. The last thing on his agenda was falling victim to believing in the idea that these destructive humans actually valued his existence.

Presently, the Trickster searched far and wide into the crevices of the velvet-covered shelves beneath his hazy, partially transparent reflection in the glass, but saw nothing of interest. This particular junk shop was full of odds and ends, trinkets to suit perhaps a human determined to become a hoarder for useless gadgets and knick knacks, but not anything of use to them, aside from a few basic hunting knives and ornate, antique pistols. There was also a trumpet in the far left of the display case, with intricate vines curling around the brasswork, as though it were custom-made for a specific musician. It looked to be a nice horn, with a little bit of spiff and shine and valve oil. In fact, the longer he looked at it, the more entranced the archangel became. 

He’d never really embraced his birthright as heavenly horn player on high, but he had dabbled in his time on Earth, traveling with jazz ensembles and brass bands back in the early days of their respective genres, when jazz was yet to perish and fade away into the snobbiness and discourse of academia, and brass bands were still popular outside of New Orleans. They were fun times, as he recalled them; staying up all night, drinking with humans he almost considered friends, and playing gigs to rooms of people who would swing and sway to the music, with liberation in their feet and exhilaration nipping at their heels. It was freedom for them, and he thoroughly enjoyed being a part of making that happen. He’d not been the best horn player, but he’d been good enough to hitch a ride with those who were. And those were good times, those. Being amongst the greats. It had made him grateful to have a hunk of brass given to him instead of a sword, for a little bit. And that was unexpectedly nice.

The trumpet glimmered at him appealingly, and he felt himself shift slightly to that side, Sam adjusting as he migrated over there, seemingly in a magnetic pull. It was difficult not to notice the heart eyes the Trickster was pulling at the horn, and the hunter was no exception to this. Thus, as he lightly found himself on the other side of the archangel, he light-heartedly asked, “See something?”

“Hm? Oh. No. I was just...memories. You know.”

“No, I don’t. I thought the Horn of Gabriel was purely metaphorical.”

To his surprise, Gabriel actually managed to pull together a small smile, although it didn’t quite reach his usual amount of cheer. He declined to meet Sam’s gaze as he responded in a quiet husk, “Well. The sigil is metaphorical. I was actually given a trumpet by my father. But it was useless, essentially. I’m only fond of the times I spent on Earth with it, playing with the greats.”

“Wait. You actually play?”

It shouldn’t have come as a shock, the Trickster being musical, but Sam was stumped for some reason. The guy had been on the Earth for countless years, it only seemed natural that he would pick up an instrument at some point, but it just didn’t seem realistic for him to actually practice the one from his prophetic duty, especially when most of the legends that they had found over the course of their careers usually pointed to there being only a small grain of truth in the legends they grew up on, rather than their literal meanings. Yet, Gabriel was claiming he had played horn some time in his history on this planet, and there was something so irrevocably exciting about that that Sam couldn’t even keep it off his face as he grinned at the angel. A thousand thoughts shot through his mind at that moment, many of them questioning when he’d done so, and where he’d gone, and what genres he’d played, but the loudest, and most frequently occurring was, ‘I’d love to hear you sometime.’

He involuntarily swallowed a large lump that had sporadically formed in his throat, and blinked rapidly to refocus himself as the Trickster replied sardonically, “No. I’m a pianist by trade. Yes, I play, Moose. Not anymore, but I used to.”

The lack of confidence in the defeathered angel, coupled with the reoccurring, needlessly insistent thoughts banging around his skull like caged heathens, inspired his next, extremely tentative comment. “I’d love to hear you sometime.” He spoke it with uneasiness, as maybe he should have, considering the head turn and eyebrow raise he received in response. 

Gabriel grinned. “Don’t patronize me, kid. Just because I’m missing my wings doesn’t mean I’m harmless. I’ll still put Nair in your shampoo and terrorize your mornings with country music.”

The words made little sense to the younger of the two Winchesters, as he’d not been being dishonest with his statement. He seriously would’ve loved to hear Gabriel play. Jazz, brass band, swing, blues, hell, even Latin. Anything. The fact that he thought so little of himself as being worth a genuine sentiment hurt. “I’m not kidding! It’s...it’s not a joke. Honestly. Swear on my life.”

“You die like every other day, Sam,” the archangel shot back, not pausing for so much as a second of silence, and folding his arms and pouting like a small child who was being scolded for sticking his hand in the cookie jar. 

“I still meant what I said.” The hunter didn’t back down from his argument, instead staring at his friend--were they that, then? Friends?--with a pointedly persuasive gaze. Even if he weren’t attempting to convince the Trickster of the validity of his statement, he still would have found himself drawn to and trapped within the guy’s eyes at some point.

It was odd, really, and he couldn’t explain. This giant room, filled, wall-to-wall, with things they should have been perusing in search of the lance, and yet, they stood right next to each other, looking anywhere but for what they should have been. Sam for one was normally more on task than this, but it’d been slipping recently, into more concern for Gabriel and less effort into his work, and now was no exception. Instead of locating the lance, like the purpose of this trek out to North Dakota, he was focused on every movement that the archangel made, and the tone in which every small sentence he spoke was said. 

It didn’t signal reliability in his skills as a hunter, but he knew he was getting involved maybe a little more than he should have been, and for what reason, he absolutely knew was a mistake. Caring about Gabriel was one thing, and destructive enough on its own, seeing as he was a hazard to both himself and others, but caring about Gabriel beyond just family was something else entirely, and a mistake he was actively making by keeping close to the angel, regardless of the consequences it would inevitably have.

Not that the archangel wouldn’t be interested, at least short-term, but Sam was a death sentence for practically every person he associated with, and he couldn’t see Gabriel ever settling down long-term for anyone. He might’ve been immune to death as an archangel, which, interestingly enough, seemed to start slipping once he’d moved in with the Winchesters, but that didn’t mean he would stay. His entire personality and history told the hunter that he would not, and that this situation where he crash landed in their lives, arm around Cas’s shoulders and a mixed drink in his hand, was not anything more than temporary. 

He was the enemy of domesticity. And Sam was genuinely cruising for the bruising of a lifetime at this point.

“Boys! Hello! You should’ve rung the bell.”

Gabriel immediately stiffened, tensing up at the sound of the jolly, low timbre of what must have been the shop owner’s voice, as he appeared through a doorway nearest the desk, that Sam frankly hadn’t even noticed up until this point, dressed in peak 80s fashion, with his half-frame brown glasses and ill-fitting suit. He immediately waltzed over to the desk and laid both arms down as he leaned across the counter, causing both patrons to take a step back, and the hunter to place a hand gently, without thinking, on the angel’s shoulder. This was a gesture that didn’t go unnoticed by the man, who smiled at them with a mouth full of teeth.

“Anything I can help you gentlemen with?”

“We’re looking for a lance,” Sam explained, noting the shift left that the archangel made to slip his hand, which found its way quickly back into the pocket of his oversized coat with an unsurprising amount of awkwardness that the man’s eyes drifted down to follow, before he abruptly directed them back up to answer Sam’s inquiry.

“A lance, eh? You wouldn’t happen to be related to those two lads from the other room, would you?” The man let out a hearty laugh before continuing, “I only have one at the moment, and those two asked first, thus I am inclined to give it to them, unless of course, you have a higher offer.”

“Um, which two...lads?” Sam struggled with the language, and it rolled off his tongue as such, which must have been mighty amusing to Gabe, judging by the small smile he pulled over the course of Sam’s sentence. 

“Trenchcoat. Leather jacket. Good-looking boys, if I may say so myself. Unfortunately, looks don’t go as far as money, hence the open bidding. What do you say, son?”

“Oh, they’re with us, actually, so there’s no need. But, um, I actually would like to make another purchase, if you don’t mind?”

The shuffle of footsteps that entered stage right from behind them belonged to Castiel and Dean as Gabriel discovered upon turning, the confusion from Sam’s statement still lingering on his face when he noticed the lance in Dean’s right hand. There was something dark and inappropriately poetic about his older brother’s vessel holding such an artifact, it almost negated the intense rush of anxiety he felt being around the damn thing. The inscription along the side, easily legible from his current angle, made him want to vomit where he stood, simply for its backstory. 

Oh, Michael and Lucifer, always were, and always would be the favorites of God; as though he had no other children. Raphael and Gabriel were treated as afterthoughts, extra energy combined with half-assed craftmanship into the trainwrecks now in heaven and on Earth, one with a crown and a penchant for institutionalized chaos, and the other with decaying grace, a liar’s smile, and a crush on a Winchester. It showed, the work God put into them. Pathetic, really. He was a mess, and his brother no different. They merely manifested themselves differently. And seeing Michael’s lance clutched in Dean’s grip? Horrible reminder of that. Terrible.

“Sure thing. What can I get for you?”

“Um, I’d like the horn, actually.”

Gabriel knit his own brows together in puzzlement about the same time as Dean’s facial features arranged themselves into something resembling bewilderment, and Cas remained clueless, as usual, to the proceedings, then whirling around to try and determine what the hell was happening. But the hunter was poker-faced, in full-on business mode as he pulled out his wallet, followed by a couple bills from it, all were none too shabby in value, not bothering to cast a look so much in his direction as the shop owner knelt down, gently shutting the lid to the leather, velvet-line case and pulling it to the countertop, securing the locks in place.

“Sam...what are you--” his voice, already absurdly quiet and lacking in both confidence and knowledge of the situation, was abruptly cut off before he could continue.

“Do you play?” the man inquired conversationally, glancing between the archangel and the Moose as he punched the corresponding numbers into an ancient computer, complete with a deeply-set keyboard and scrolling, ivory grey mouse. 

“Not at all,” Sam replied with a chuckle, as though the notion were ridiculous, and then, finally, gave the archangel a onceover and nod with his next sentence. “But he does.”

There were few times in his life that Gabriel was at a loss for words. Staring down death had become more commonplace than kindness in his line of work. But even niceties, genuine or not, never caught him as off-guard as this did, dazzling aqua eyes and pure, concealed smile peering over at him before forking the cash over to the man across the counter, and he had to actually remind himself that breathing was now something he had to do, and that it was no longer optional if he wanted to remain living.

“Ah. Lovely.”

The words didn’t even seem real as the man slid the case across the counter, and Sam picked it up by the handle with a polite nod and grin, then turning to the Trickster and holding it out for the taking, which the angel then did, with hesitance and an uncertain but hopeful look on his face. Sam seemed pleased with himself as he turned, meeting the mystified and slightly disconcerted expressions of his brother and his husband next. “We good? You got the lance?”

It took Dean a moment to process the question, and a second later, after letting out an abrupt, forced cough, he replied, “Uh, yeah. Yeah. We got the lance. Let’s go.” He then hurriedly spun to powerwalk out the exit, as though he could not escape the situation fast enough. Sam assumed that Cas would follow, but instead, as he passed, the angel merely gave him a mannerly nod, and joined Gabriel at the back, the older of the two gingerly swinging the trumpet case back and forth as he walked, a small, but genuine smile on his face, leaving Sam in 2nd place behind the older Winchester by several paces.

In the brief seconds where Sam had left the store, and Cas and Gabe approached the door, the younger of the two spoke up, gravelly-sounding as usual when he said, “I’m happy for you.”

“What?” Gabe asked, sincerely lost.

“I’m happy for you,” Cas repeated, lips upturned at the ends in a knowing glance reflected at the archangel before he passed through the doorway, holding the door for his brother. The Winchesters had made it out to the car at this point, where Dean was visibly struggling with how exactly the long-ass stick they had just purchased was going to fit in the Impala. 

“I-I beg your pardon? Cas, you need to give me a little more than that, bro. What are you talking about?”

“You have feelings for him.”

It was no time or place to do so, but Gabe felt his cheeks begin to blaze involuntarily at the suggestion. “What? N-no. Jeez, Cas. What have you been smoking? Feelings for who?” 

The words had come out of his mouth in improper order, eliminating their usefulness, and further undermining his cause, also resulting in the increased glee of the angel in front of him when he stepped through the doorway, letting the door fall closed behind him. 

“Sam,” he uttered simply, raising his eyebrows in uncharacteristic nonchalance. 

“Pfft. The Moose? Oh please. Right. Just because I stole Loki’s identity doesn’t mean I’m also into quadrupedal beasts, Cas. Don’t be ridiculous. I mean, Sam’s great and all, but, uh, he’s not much of my type. I’m more of a...anything not wearing flannel kind of guy.”

“He’s not wearing flannel today. That’s cotton.”

 _This fucker_ , Gabriel thought to himself. “You know what I meant, asshole.” 

“Right,” Cas answered, tonality oddly mimicking a sing-song as he strode ahead, giving his older sibling one final, oceanically knowing glance before striding ahead. “I do have eyes, you know, Gabriel.”

The Trickster, flustered, trailed after him, lamely mumbling, “You sure do. Fuck off, four-thousand eyes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, for anyone who doesn't know, angels are canonically hideous, or so I've discovered during my angelology research over the past year. Michael? Hideous. Awful. 10/10 would not recommend. But anyway, to Gabriel's last sentence, it is a reference to how many eyes angels actually have. Metatron has...I think 365,000? It differs per angel. But it's a play on 'four-eyes' except the angel version. And let's face it: Gabe is salty when being called out.


	10. Soft Shock

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sappiness hits a high in this one, courtesy of Sam. Meanwhile, Gabriel panics, appropriately.

It was a dull day in. Several weeks had passed, with little to no news trickling down from angelic sources regarding Raphael’s plans for the future. And somehow, Gabriel was still clinging to life in the Bunker, struggling with humanity about as much as one would expect, whilst dealing with the moderately piteous looks he occasionally received from the others within the residence whenever he screwed up doing the dishes or folding laundry, as though he’d ever needed to before now. But, much to his surprise, the ire he had been expecting to eventually unfold as a result of his own incompetence in humanly matters, had yet to reveal itself in any of the other tenants within the building. Dean mostly kept to the mission at hand, and all other attention he spared was directed at worrying about Cas, who was a bundle of anxiety ready to explode at any given moment, should someone clap a hand on his shoulder with improper timing. 

No one seemed to give a crap about Gabriel’s uselessness in defeating Raphael, whenever that rolled out, and he was oddly grateful for that, if it provided him a home and the ability to lay out on the couch watching Netflix when he wasn’t called in for interrogations about his brother’s weaknesses, as though he had any. Perhaps it was natural, his lack of caring about the situation, but he had yet to see any real threats come of Raphael’s ruling, and until that day came, he would keep to himself any concerns he had about what was going on upstairs in favor of finally sitting down to watch Downton Abbey, sometimes with company, othertimes not.

The lines of clear distinction between pure companionship and questionably homoerotic gestures were beginning to blur severely in regards to his relationship with Sam. It was strange to slap a label on anything for him, but more recently, he’d felt as though he were actually dating the guy rather than just being his heavenly translator and occasional punchline. There were a lot of reasons for that besides sitting down to watch a TV show together. It wasn’t just that. It was also the coffee set out for him in the morning when he woke up, blended just how he liked it, and the occasional outings to the grocery store where it took little to no persuasion to encourage the hunter to go all-in and buy numerous unhealthy and frankly overpriced items that the archangel wanted. It was the comforting shoulder offered to him when he got too sleepy transcribing Metatron’s dumb scribbles and could barely keep his eyes open, let alone hold his own head up. And it was the constant insistence that he was worth more than a weapon to them, that he was family and that they were going to fix this grace nonsense eventually. 

Truly, the longer it went on, the less Gabe began to care about his lack of wings. He was apt to forget from time to time, that he even was without them, as his lifestyle had become so mundane that having them hardly seemed of necessity. He was a big boy, who could do his own laundry and fix his own food with moderate success, and did so on the regular nowadays. If it weren’t for the fact that he felt like a part of his soul was missing, he might have almost not even recalled that he was an archangel, once upon a time. But he did. And that never escaped him. Day or night, the gaping hole remained.

He didn’t talk about it. Typical of him really, but even with the hunter he’d grown close to, he chose not to mention it. Sam was in top form recently, both with productivity and happiness, and Gabe didn’t want to be the one to wipe the grin off his face. It would’ve been painful now, to start the day in any other way than the guy physically dragging him out of bed, gleefully talking about how an early rise was good for the heart and health and blah blah blah, Gabe had usually stopped listening at that point to groan loudly in discontent as the covers were pulled off of him and his entire body was exposed to the shivering temperatures of the Bunker’s A/C. 

He was...in a sense, terrified of what was happening. How fond he was growing of this one particular human, absurdly tall in his height and endlessly selfless in his desire to protect others. It was wrong, not only from a heavenly standpoint as an archangel, but on personal principle as well, to develop feelings of such strength for any being, but especially a Winchester. Because Sam’s kindness, loathe though he was to admit it, was not romantic in any sense, and interpreting it as such would only end in pain, regardless of how it might have been experienced by the angel in question. He had to keep reminding himself that he wasn’t Castiel, and that he wasn’t falling for this shit, or this, this dumbass, ridiculously perfect human, with his supermodel hair and body of a Greek god. It wasn’t in his story to be happy in that sense, and he’d known that for a long time, hence the endless trails of porn stars and Pagan goddesses who wanted to chop off his gonads a time or two. He needed to keep himself grounded, to what he knew was true, and that was that no matter his personal feelings on the subject, romantic happiness, especially with a Winchester, no less, was not in his future.

It was an unimpressive, lackluster Sunday when Dean abruptly busted into the study, jolting the archangel awake from his previous position of napping solidly against the arm of the couch, the buffalo plaid blanket draped over him partially falling from his shoulder as propped himself up, squinting to adjust his eyes and determine the identity of the person who had entered the room. “‘Sup, Dean-o. Need something?”

“Nope. Just going to go run a few errands. We’re low on supplies.”

It was a brief response but acceptable. Then again, anything would’ve sufficed as an answer to the mostly human being zonked out on the sofa, the TV softly humming the sounds of Law and Order: Criminal Intent reruns he had been watching before dozing off. The energy to care hadn’t awoke in him just yet, and before it had the chance, Dean was out the door, slamming it with about as much caution and care for the structure as for his own room. Cas had left earlier with much more gracefulness, though his reasons were about as vague. If Gabriel were invested in the matter at all, he would say something was up with the two of them. But alas, he was not.

What he was more interested in, by far, was the fact that he had yet to see Sam since breakfast, where he had, honoring tradition, dragged a whiny, bleary-eyed Gabe from bed, and then proceeded to sit him down at the table and hand him a mug full of something called espresso, which had woken the Trickster as quickly as Sam had then disappeared. He’d not been seen or heard from the time elapsed since, which would totalled about seven hours. The last time Gabriel made a round searching for his presence had been before his hour and a half long nap. Now, as he stood up, letting the blanket fall from the rest of his body, he grabbed the remote and switched the TV off, resolving to make another in hopes of uncovering the Moose’s whereabouts.

It was Sunday, which meant it was board game night, and also, simultaneously, crappy Chinese food night, all of which would be starting soon, hence the importance of Sam getting his ass back home and seated in preparation for the event. It was Gabriel’s turn to pick the game this evening, and with the assumption that they were already down two players with Dean and Cas out, he was leaning towards a three-hour Monopoly showdown with the hunter in the pursuit of proving his strategic prowess at being a slumlord. But with no other players, that meant he was left to his own devices, like sourly using the iPad and accidentally sinking three hours into 1010. So Sam had to be home. Or else.

Gabe wandered first into the library, then into the kitchen, followed up by the multitude of storage, and finally, out of luck with those, turned to their own rooms, hedging his bets on Sam’s own but coming up empty. Same with Cas and Dean’s. And then, much to his surprise, he was thwarted by the sight of the hunter in his own quarters, trapped in his own world by the earbuds nestled within his ears and the phone connected to them in his back pocket, pumping out sound that had him moving ever so slightly with a rhythm in his hips that frankly, Gabriel strongly wished he hadn’t noticed. He appeared to be in the process of sorting out clothes on the bed, which was mysterious enough if he were doing it in his own room, but this was even more unusual.

“Nice moves, Samsquatch,” he voiced, tone coming off as playful, but the compliment sincere. 

Sam immediately tensed up, jerking the earbuds out of his ears and whirling around, face flush with embarrassment. “U-Uhm. Thanks. Sorry. Um, I got these shirts for you at the Goodwill. They have a really awesome sale on Sundays, and there was a bunch of stuff in your size, so I figured, hey, might as well, right?” The words all stuck together in a rush as the younger Winchester brought his feet together and fixed his hands behind his back awkwardly, as though he were a teenager discovered trying to sneak out of the house.

“Why thank ya, kiddo. Are we still on for game night, tonight? I’ve been looking forward to whipping your ass in Monopoly for weeks.”

Sam’s eyes lit up, but he took a deadpan when he spoke. “We are. Also, that’s sad.” 

“Oh,” the archangel replied, waggling his eyebrows, “is it, now?” The Trickster sighed melodramatically, stepping into the room with a hand stroking the goatee he didn’t have. “But whatever would I look forward to if it wasn’t making you eat your words over Chinese food, Samshine?”

“Maybe coming up with some more creative nicknames for me. These ones are getting a little old.”

“If you say so, Uncle Sam.”

“Nope. Nevermind. Forget I said anything.”

Gabe chuckled, practically grinning from ear to ear when he raised his head to look at the hunter, who seemed just as joyful despite his annoyed facade, walking past him and down the hallway, back in the direction of the study, where they would soon be engaged in metaphorical combat over plastic houses and a giant square of cardboard. The angel turned and followed, a little skip in his step as he went. “So where’s Dean off to? Last time I checked, he was banned from grocery shopping after the pie incident.”

“Oh.” Sam halted, just shy of the kitchen doorway, and craned his neck to catch Gabe as he came around the bend. “He’s on a case. Garth asked him to come down. I guess he needed backup.”

The Trickster held his breath, rocking back and forth on his heels before finally exhaling and raising his brows as he finished, “And lemme guess, you’re on archangel-watching duty, so I don’t burn the house down in your absence?” He sighed, managing a dramatic eyeroll. 

“You do have a track record with destruction, but no, actually. Dean said he had cabin fever, so I told him I would stay behind and hold down the fort, since Cas is out running around, trying to get information on Raphael.” Taking an unexpected turn, Sam went on ahead into the kitchen, reaching for the menu clipped to the refrigerator, then flattening it out on the counter to reveal its contents. “I’m assuming you’re gonna take your usual?” he questioned, skimming the page without looking up.

“Actually, I was thinking about maybe trying whatever it is you always get. That pork thing.” He spoke along with his hands as he attempted to gesture something to represent the dish, drawing the Sam’s gaze as he reached for his cellphone, about to dial the number for the Chinese restaurant, and eliciting a small smile. Noticing this immediately caused him to drop his arms stiffly at his sides, pulling up a poker face as Sam’s hand recoiled from the phone and he straightened up, other hand slipping off the counter. 

“You sure? It has vegetables.” The slight mockery in his tone, coupled with the pettiness and small but distinct eyebrow raise didn’t escape him. 

“Bite me, smartass,” Gabe grumbled, turning the edge by the refrigerator and attempting to bolster his vessel’s height to seem at least a tiny bit more intimidating, but he supposed it felt flat for several reasons, one of which being that he was literally attempting to threaten a giant. A giant who was smiling at him with an uncomfortable amount of affection visible in his gaze, like he was looking at a saint who had put the stars themselves in the sky, rather than a decidedly unimpressive, defeathered jackass of an archangel who had done so, many, many millennia ago, not that anyone knew that.

All of his deeds, and all of Raphael’s, were swept under the most popular names of the Bible thumpers, be it Michael or Lucifer. In this particular case, it was attributed to Lucifer, mostly due to his heritage of the title ‘morning star,’ implying that he loosely had something to do with the existence of other planets out there in the solar system and beyond. He did not. Lucifer had been too busy rolling around in a giant pile of salt, hissing and yelling whenever things didn’t go his way. Michael, similarly. Raphael and Gabriel laid the groundwork for the sciences, including the placement of the planets in relativity to the Earth, as was God’s will.

But Sam had no reason to look at him like that, hence why he was finding holding eye contact increasingly difficult the longer the Moose maintained it. It made him feel valued, and appreciated, and that was as foreign as it was disconcerting, considering it was both an uncommon occurrence and a situation in which he had done nothing to deserve it. Bringing back Cas was old news now, and frankly, not even something that he needed thanking for, seeing as he had been against the angel returning home with the ‘flannel-wrapped nightmares,’ as he called the Winchesters way back when. And fixing the nightmares? That was just being halfway decent. Sam hadn’t really slept in weeks. He deserved a few peaceful hours. 

Gabe had done nothing to warrant being looked at like that, and it caught him horribly off guard whenever the Moose finally chose to offer some commentary to go along with his awe. “Hey, whenever this Raphael drama is over with, and you get your grace back, I was thinking...about maybe taking you up on your offer, to go to Europe. Is that still open?”

It took a second for Gabe to make sense out of the statement. He had been expecting something. What, he didn’t know, but something else. “Hm? Oh. Yeah, of course! Once I get my feathers back, I’ll have us there in no time flat, Sammich. I’m glad to see you branching outside the comfort zone. So what are you thinking? Team Free Will company vacation?”

“Dean? Flying voluntarily? Yeah, um, no. I was...heh.” The hunter glanced down, delicate brown lashes brushing against his skin as his voice softened. “This sounds ridiculous, now that I’m thinking about it, but I was going to say that I’d like it if it were just us going, actually.” 

The lack of grace he was experiencing felt infinitely large in that moment, as the notion that he needed to breathe escaped him, and the air he had within his body was abruptly sucked out by both the words Sam had said, as well as how he’d said them. _Fuck_ , the archangel swore internally, alarms going off in the back of his mind, and a little voice demanding that he not mistake this for something it wasn’t. But _fuck_. No. That sounded like a date, didn’t it? More than a date. That sounded like a Dad-damn honeymoon, practically. Sam was not asking him...just him...on this. Except he was. Dean and Cas were not invited. 

“But, um, you know, it’s fine, if you don’t want to. You can drop me off and go harass some tourists elsewhere, and that’s fine too.”

He’d waited too long to speak. “No,” he choked out, the words accompanied with a sort of panic he hoped didn’t show on his face, likely in vain. “I would love to go to Europe with you. I mean, who the hell is gonna show you around if I don’t? Some lame tour guide? Pfft. Please. I know all the best spots anyway, and you don’t even have to pay me. Your company is plenty compensation.” 

If he didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought that Sam was actually blushing whenever he looked up at the end of his last sentence. He was certainly smiling, but the red tints in his cheeks and across his face implied that he was either embarrassed or flattered, the second of which had to be straight-up impossible. “Thank you.”

_Shit._ Gabriel had never much given musing to the phrase ‘head spinning,’ but at the particular moment, the entire world around him didn’t even feel real. What the hell was happening? Did Sam just ask him on the plot of a romcom? Did he interpret what Gabe said as flirting? What was going on? The alarms kept going off, and his mind was firing on all six cylinders, screaming at him so many things, he couldn’t keep even one straight. 

“So, uh, about the Chinese. Are you sure you want--”

“I’ll have what he’s having,” the archangel interrupted, default charismatic in his delivery, ready to distract himself in any way possible from the voices in his head with their conflicting opinions. He gave the Winchester a sly look to disguise the anxiety threatening to consume him, something Sam fell for and predictably sighed at, visibly done with his nonsense, and dialing the number for the Chinese restaurant.

As he heard the woman on the other line pick up with an accented greeting, and Sam respond with a, “Hi, I’d like to place an order for pick-up,” the sounds grew louder, and with their increased clarity, he realized that all of the voices, with their varying tones and resonances, were actually singing, rather than speaking, all the same lines, and from a song he once knew.

_From Paris, you know I held on too much_  
_I left you at the station, I put you in my past_  
_Oh and now darling, all that shit is behind us_  
_You never have to wonder, you never have to ask_

_You never have to._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end lyrics come from a song named "Paris," aptly, and you can find it [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-5s1q7SVs6U). I would just like to say that the world is about to come abruptly crashing down next time I post, so this last chapter here truly is the namesake of this story. Let this happiness keep you afloat for what awaits, because I promise, it's not going to be pretty.


	11. No One Knows

There were no words to describe, quantitatively, or qualitatively, the emotions Dean Winchester was experiencing as he pulled into his usual parking space beside the Bunker, his hands curled tightly around the wheel even after he’d reached over and turned the ignition off. The sigh he released was something of a byproduct from the stress he had accrued on the trip back home, after meeting up with Garth and being slapped in the face with news that should’ve been good, but was instead eating at his well-being like a parasite. 

He didn’t want to go inside. He didn’t want to tell Sam. He did not at all want to tell Cas, because that, that was a situation that was doomed to explode from the moment he walked through that door and was unable to make his lips move for peaceful introductions. Meanwhile, in the midst of all of this, they were engaged in a cold war with Raphael, a questionably useful lance and a broken archangel that seemed to be hopelessly in love with his brother the only advantages to their name. If there was a time for this, it wasn’t now, but then, Dean supposed he couldn’t complain. The bright smile and blonde hair of the woman in the backseat of the vehicle kept him from it. He thought he’d never see it again, in the flesh. The only images he had left of her anymore were scraps of photographs from decades ago, and the strong, ethereal shape she had taken shortly after he’d picked up Sam from Stanford in search of their father and they’d pit-stopped in Lawrence on a case.

Sam would take this well. Hopefully. Dean couldn’t be held responsible if he didn’t, but to the majority of faces he was bringing back into their lives, he hoped that his sibling would understand and appreciate the gift of this, no matter from whom it came, and the inevitable price tag that would come with it. There were good things about this. She was a good part of this. And perhaps, the man grumbling beside him, peering out the window at the bleak, unexciting weather of Lebanon, Kansas in late September was also a good part, although that had yet to be sorted out, with Cas and Sam alike. And the last passenger in the vehicle, directly behind him, had to be a godsend for his brother. Not at this moment, probably, but in general. Dean couldn’t help but wish that he’d gotten that call months ago, right after the wedding, when the Raphael debacle had yet to be discovered, Hannah hadn’t yet swung into their lives to make eyes at Cas and constantly demand his attention, and Sam wasn’t throwing their money away on trumpets to woo a powered down but still 100% annoying archangel. That would’ve been a much better time to hear the words from Garth, and see the faces around him, but alas.

That wasn’t Winchester luck now, was it?

“Alright,” he announced, reluctantly letting his hands slide from the wheel as a few eyes glanced up from the backseat, as did a set to his side. “I’m going in first. This is a lot to take in, so you’re gonna need to give me a minute to prepare Sam, or else he’s going to hose you down with holy water.”

“Holy water,” the younger blonde in the backseat repeated, as though the words were unfamiliar. To her, they would’ve been. Dean was still second-handedly horrified by the fact that she had even needed ‘the talk,’ but to hell with it. He’d given it more and more often these days, it seemed doomed that eventually, all innocent people would be aware of the werewolf living in their guesthouse, or the vampire at the end of the block with the nice landscaping. She could be no exception, especially if she were to be staying with them.

“Gotcha,” the other woman responded with a small smile. Seeing it even out of the corner of his eyes elicited a similar movement from Dean as he pulled himself out of the vehicle, closing the door and heading inside. The other passengers followed as he entered, trailing behind as Dean took in the sounds of a mostly empty Bunker, with the only identifiable sounds he could make out being the voices of Sam and Gabriel, then, interestingly enough, Cas, although they weren’t out in the common area. Descending the stairs, he gestured for their guests to wait at the bottom, and turned the corner, walking into the library, where he spotted a standing Cas, hovering over a seated Sam and Gabe, both of whom seemed to be working on their usual project, save for the unexplained pile of DumDum pops situated in the middle of the table, which the hunter figured was yet another offering to the discount Pagan god glancing up as soon as he had appeared in the doorway, offering, “Ah. Back already, Dean-o? I was starting to think you fell in.”

Ignoring the toilet humor, and the kind, warm eyes of Castiel, who he could feel watching him with concern, he forced out, “Sam. A moment.” He couldn’t bother with eye contact. His insides felt ready to spill out all over the Bunker floor at any given second. 

“Sure.” Without looking, Dean heard Cas sigh, and knew that the angel had visibly sunk back in his posture, staring at him with not so much wonder as worry and love. And he hated that he couldn’t return the gesture, especially as Sam stood up, playfully ruffling the hair of the archangel as he stepped behind his chair and towards Dean, but even bearing witness to that made Dean feel infinitely worse about what bomb he was about to drop on this teen fiction novel his brother was living in at the moment. Because of that, Cas would have to wait. Longer than either of them wanted, as Dean figured it stood, but he would have to. 

“What’s up?” Sam asked conversationally, not letting his domestic bubble be burst so easily by the anxiety eating at his brother’s features. Maybe that resilience would have been comforting if Sam had been in a war mode, doubled down and researching to find a way out of this Raphael mess instead of placing his time and effort into pointless ventures like Metatron’s notebook, but it was that very nonchalant tone that got Dean to the cusp of the words he needed to say.

“Listen, um, we have a situation.” At Sam’s immediate shift in expression, and automatic reflex to his hip, where his gun would normally be fixed, he quickly added, “Not like that. This isn’t...bad. Well. Not that kind of bad. I don’t know what it is, besides weird. But listen, I checked it out already, and they’re not ghosts, or demons or angel tuxes. Not zombies. Not ghouls. I don’t know…” Dean took a deep breath, gathering his strength to finish out his statement. “...I don’t know what they are, besides family, or how they’re here, but they are. Come on.”

As Sam made a step forward, it came to Dean’s realization that perhaps he had been neither quiet enough nor clear enough in his orders, as he heard the shuffle of movement behind him right about the same time he glanced up to see the confusion register on both Sam’s face as well as Cas’s, seeing as the angel had bat-like hearing when he wanted to. That being said, Dean was also privy to the change on his brother’s face before he turned, and the range of emotions that crossed it, a myriad of feelings he couldn’t begin to describe if he tried, and damn, he himself had been trying since he had first laid eyes on the folks behind them, hours ago, before they’d driven back up here to Lebanon from Purcell, Oklahoma. 

It wasn’t everyday, after all, that you got to bring home your dead parents and long lost love of your brother’s life. 

“S...Sam?” He heard his mother, Mary speak hesitantly. Those words still seemed unreal to him. It had been less than 24 hours since he’d uncovered this news, and in that timeframe, it his world still hadn’t shifted to making room for this being anything but an illusion, or worse off, dream. 

He wasn’t quite ready to turn around and see them again. Not when he saw Sam’s look of disbelief and puppy dog-like hope when he responded. “M...Mom? Dad?”

“Hi, Sam,” another voice introduced softly, less familiar to him than the others, and it was precisely that moment, and the way it washed over his brother’s face as he stared in transfixed, haunted awe ahead of them, that he knew he couldn’t. He couldn’t watch this happen. 

If he were a good person, perhaps he would’ve. A good person, who wanted what was best for his brother rather than what was best for the fragile state of affairs around this house. But it had been an eternity of uncertainty for Dean Winchester as to whether or not Jessica Moore had ever been good for Sam. He’d spent not weeks or months or a mere two years grieving her after Azazel had turned the tables on them and forced Sam’s hand to go hunting again in the interests of finding what had killed his girlfriend so unceremoniously at Stanford. Jess had been the driving momentum behind each and every spaced out, saddened look Sam had ever had in the past fifteen years, and the constant pull that kept him anchored to wanting to save people, because he couldn’t save her then. The tour of carnage, and the aching, hollowed heart Jess had left behind when she disappeared from Sam’s life were things that Dean consistently remembered as tortures he couldn’t help his brother with, ever. 

Maybe Dean wasn’t allowed to talk, though. The very thought of losing Cas, of being powerless to stop it, filled him with an animalistic mourning. The kind of passionate grief that left families broken and blood on the walls of each and every place he might go. In fact, Dean suspected that losing Cas like Sam had lost Jess, would reduce him to a shell of a human being, leaving nothing but vengeance. No mercy. Simply bloodlust and a hunger for just desserts.

Which, speaking of the latter, the initial guilt he’d been experiencing before walking in came full circle when he boldly elected to try and gauge Cas’s reaction, but got hung up in the process by the sight of Gabriel’s entire being sinking to the bottom of the ocean within whiskey tinted eyes darting from Sam to Jessica and back again. Dean didn’t really care for Gabriel that much. Perhaps he would have, if he weren’t an unpredictable trainwreck that had tried to kill them, and succeeded at least partly over a hundred or so times, because the guy had style, and his sense of humor was killer--literally. But Dean wouldn’t have wished this upon him.

He hadn’t seen a person’s heart break like that since he’d misspoken to Cas at Balthazar’s party, hastily attempting to make excuses for kissing him without outright telling the truth. He thought he’d fumbled his last chance to get Cas back, or so he’d thought. In a way, he supposed he almost owed Gabriel for that. If the archangel hadn’t lost his temper and flown the coop on Castiel and Ambriel the night before, leaving Cas with limited options, he doubted that the angel would have come home. Like that, he felt another, impossibly heavy stone settle on top of his chest, struggling to tear his eyes away from the troubling sight and come to rest them on Cas, who was holding a poker face with an impressive amount of stoicness. 

“I didn’t realize you had guests,” John voiced gruffly beside him. Dean immediately stood at attention, glancing to his right and then back at the room full of angels, nervousness etched lightly into his features.

Now came time for discord. To explain the ring on his finger, and how it got there. Who his hand belonged to, and where Cas’s had been when they first met. However to explain falling in love with the beautiful, radiant angel in the corner, with the eyes the texture of the galaxy and wings as black as night. It wasn’t the kind of love story they sold in the theatre, and it wasn’t the kind of thing Dean told anyone. And trying to sell it to his father, a traditional guy who hated the supernatural and anything to do with homosexuality? It wasn’t going to be difficult. It was going to be impossible. John Winchester wouldn’t be appeased with a, “Hey, Dad, this is my husband, Castiel. He’s an angel, and yeah, I mean that literally. He’s got the harp and everything.”

“Uh, yeah, sorry about that. They live with us, actually. This is my best friend, Castiel, and his brother, Gabriel. Cas, Gabe...these are our parents. And Jess. Sam’s girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend? Ah, I don’t even know what to call her. Everything’s a little weird right now.”

“John. Mary.” He’d expected Cas to take a minute, especially considering how he’d chosen to handle the angel’s introduction, but Cas was quick on his feet, walking over, past the mute, sullen archangel, and offering a hand to John, which the latter shook firmly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. You raised wonderful boys.”

“They’re not half bad,” John remarked, glancing between Dean, who forced a smile, and Sam, who was still wearing puppy eyes, unable to so much as blink lest Jessica disappear. The blonde had reached out at this point, gingerly bringing pale fingertips to rest upon his face, and Sam looked like he was genuinely going to cry within seconds. “Nice handshake. Are you a hunter?”

Dean’s eyes widened, flickering to Cas as he attempted to mouth a small but frantic, “Don’t,” before Cas responded with his usual, Honest Abe routine.

“Of a sort,” Cas answered noncommittally, his gaze coming to rest on Dean with what was, behind its surface mask, a very intense kind of disapproval, before once again jumping to John and throwing up cordial barriers. “I specialize in certain...situations. But yes.”

“H-How is this possible? Dean?” For the first time since their guests had stepped in, his brother turned to him, eyes red-rimmed with the promise of tears. Unfortunately, he had hardly any answers to appease him with, as Garth offered no sensible explanation for the three, who had randomly appeared on the doorstep of his current hotel room after getting his contact info from an mutual hunter friend of John’s. How they got there seemed to be a little fuzzy, no matter who you asked. Thus, Dean was only able to offer an underwhelming shrug in response. 

It didn’t seem to matter to Sam, as he turned back towards Jessica, and Mary, to her right, unable to fight a genuine smile. “This is...wow. I’m so happy to see you all again. Mom...uh, can I call you that? It’s so weird. I’ve never...I’ve never gotten to call you that before.”

This was a pinnacle moment for his brother, and that much was obvious from a mile away, as he immediately leapt into social butterfly mode, but for some reason, Dean wasn’t able to live in that with him. His surroundings, the bright, happy, living faces of family he thought long gone, in the same room as those he kept dear now, was simply something he wasn’t able to compute. 

As if sensing this, he felt the sudden presence of a hand rest itself on his shoulder, and he nearly jumped as Cas joined his side, lips formed in a generally pleased, but tight smile. Instantly, he felt his entire body relax, and some tension seep out. He wanted to lean in closer, put his arm around the angel, but now wasn’t the time. 

He didn’t know when the time would be, is the thing. Telling his father that he had proposed to and then married his best, male friend, was now on the docket, right next to stopping Raphael’s holy crusade and starting his Christmas shopping. And even though, of those tasks, one greatly differed from the others in difficulty, it wasn’t the one it should have been. The idea of admitting this relatively simply fact to his dad shouldn’t have weighed as being more stressful a concept than fighting a powerful archangel with weapons about as useful as butter knives to their family name. And yet, it did.

So behind his back, as his father turned, speaking slowly, asking Sam a well-intentioned question, and his brother replied, tone heightened with giddy, unadulterated glee, he reached behind his own back, finding Cas’s own with little effort and squeezing it. And as his eyes traveled back over the room, he felt a single pressure in response and exhaled so quietly, he thought it might have escaped even the angel’s attention. 

Instead, he heard a quiet, “We’ll be fine, Dean,” as the warmth left his palm, along with Castiel, and the room seemed to settle into grayscale, with a dull thump and unclear voices and mumbles as the soundtrack.


	12. Lie Lie Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas has 99 problems, and 97 of them live in the same house as him.

Some kind of cosmic joke touched down on Earth in Lebanon on a Tuesday the third week of August. Some might have considered it a miracle, and no laughing matter. Yet, the sounds echoing across the Bunker were those of joy--mostly. Light-hearted chuckles, amused shouts and soft murmurings of contentedness were the music of the hallways, as things long lost to Sam and Dean Winchester were once again returned by some unknown force powerful enough to mimic the act of an entire angelic garrison threefold, years and years ago. It was a mystery rather left unsolved by the aforementioned siblings, not that that needed said. If one’s family and the dead love of one’s mortal existence showed up on your doorstep one day, it turned out that, despite their profession, even the Winchesters didn’t want answers as to how or why. Not really. Not when that blissful illusion could keep looping in the background, like a dream without strings attached. 

But there were. Strings attached, that is. Always were, with gifts like this, not that the brothers would hear anything of it, from Castiel or Gabriel. Of course, Cas was the only one actively reminding them, he supposed, although he was assuming Gabe felt similarly. His older brother had been much too concerned with sinking into a spiteful but thankfully powerless existence as the pathetic lump on the couch that hissed if so much a hand was extended in his direction to bother with reminding the Winchesters that not everything was as it seemed. He might have dramatizing with that description, but the change in Gabriel had came immediately and came hard, as soon as their unexpected guests had stepped into the room, and Sam had set his eyes upon them. This occurrence obviously didn’t have to set a precedent for alteration of the relationship the archangel had cultivated with the hunter, but, much like Dean and Sam themselves, Gabriel wouldn’t acknowledge it. 

The fact that his brother was so despondent over the matter should have been a priority of eminent importance, and under any normal circumstances, it would have been. But nothing about this was normal, and the fact that everyone else in the Bunker seemed to take it as such was more alarming than any amount of self-loathing Gabriel could muster up. Between this reality and the hindersome, if not downright aggravating consequences with it, and the situation with Raphael escalating into real, scheduled danger according to Hannah, Cas already had his hands too full to handle his brother’s decaying mental health and willingness to surrender himself to isolation and self-hatred. He wish he had the time to juggle all the responsibilities on his shoulders, but alas, even without sleeping, he fell short of finding much-needed explanations and kept repeatedly ending up at dead ends on every road he tried to follow, regardless of whichever problem he was trying to address.

With Dean, it was admitting both their marriage, or even relationship, to his father, who, relationship to his husband well-considered, was nothing short of a heavily damaged, closed-minded prick in Cas’s opinion. He didn’t share this with Dean, obviously, as things between the two of them were tense enough without his disapproval of the man getting in the way. Aside from that, Dean seemed to idolize his father, albeit in the most oxymoronic and saddening way possible, as John didn’t seem to give much care to either of his sons, but if there was a favorite, it was Sam, simply for the fact that he was disobedient to the natural law John had laid down as head of household. The relationships, all of them, were so distorted, masochistic and dysfunctional in their nature, Cas could barely comprehend what was happening most of the time. Dean turned a deaf ear to any negativity regarding his father. Even if it involved the inevitable revelation of their marriage to the man, he resiliently chose to remain ignorant. It was frustrating, to backslide so far in their relationship after Dean had finally crawled out of the closet he’d been hiding in the past ten years to admit his feelings to Cas, and then actually regularly practice showing them, first when they were alone, then around Sam, and finally, Gabriel and Ambriel. 

And while there was something enthralling about sneaking around with his love, Shakespearean in its stolen moments of passion, he greatly missed the arm around his waist whenever they discussed plans to take down the latest monster, or the occasional, good morning kiss whilst the rest of their family (and by family, he meant Sam and Gabriel, occasionally Ambriel) sat nearby, scarfing down coffee in a futile attempt to wake up. He craved that domesticity, especially from Dean, who’d never gotten the chance to fully commit to a mundane life. Before John, Mary and Jessica had arrived, they were as close as they’d ever gotten, and Cas had fallen as in love with it as he had with Dean, and now they were disrupting it with their existence. And by they, he meant John, with his off-handed comments about the current age, dispelled at opportune moments where Mary was usually outside of listening range, and he could say whatever rude, dated comment crossed his mind.

Meanwhile, it always started the same with Dean. _I’ll tell him. I promise. Just give me time, Cas._ Insert generic excuse. _He just got here. There’s a lot going on. Let the guy settle in before we bombard him. He should get to know you first._

Cas tried not to think about it, mostly because he didn’t want it to hurt, manifest itself as doubt in Dean, and in their relationship. Not after they’d gotten this far. So instead, he focused on Raphael, but that was equally hopeless in leads and reasonable expectation of their success against his rule. With Gabriel’s wings in a piteous state, and the lance of Michael becoming a tool of imminent destruction if Raphael oh-so happened to get his hands on it during a fight with them due to his immense advantage in the power department, they were flat out of luck as far as directly sparring with him was concerned. He’d been strategizing with Hannah in the meantime, attempting to find less risky ways of perhaps bringing down heaven’s newest crown, but those had proved fruitless as well, beyond serving as an occasional vent session for him to express his emotions about the other chaos going on in his life and home.

Hannah was a good listener, and always sat patiently by his side as he diverged every once in while from their chats about heaven and descended into a stress-induced mini-breakdown about Dean, John, Raphael, and his brother. She would always let him finish his sentences, before quietly responding with a gentle hand squeeze and acknowledgement of his struggles, followed up by her own advice, or a question about it all. Cas felt guilty about this, for both their sakes’. This shouldn’t have been her job; it was Dean’s, and yet, he grew further distant from the angel everyday more that that misogynistic, homophobic dickwad of a hunter stayed in their home. Hannah shouldn’t have been having to comfort him about his insecurities and worries, and yet, she was, and he was incredibly grateful for that, more grateful for it, even, than her assistance with the Raphael nightmare. She was soothing. That was what made him guilty. Enjoying her company, as though he were betraying Dean in some way.

Whether or not it was truly wrong, he didn’t know. He was pretty new to the game when it came to human relationships, albeit not as new as his agonized brother, who was, currently, curled up on the couch, barely identifiable as anything other than a plaid-clad, pillow-covered mountain of depression he refused to come to terms with. They’d been hard at work the past few days, more unintentionally than not, as they’d been unfortunately been left to their own devices in favor of their usual company ditching them for their newly arrived family. Only a few days had passed since they’d first come, and yet, it had already felt like an eternity of suffering to Cas. So much lying. So many inside jokes and human references he didn’t understand. And of course, so much socializing. So, so much socializing. He didn’t like it.

“Gabriel,” he began, turning his eyes upon the unresponsive lump next to him. He could hardly make out dark honey eyes in the poor lighting around them in the common room. It had changed minimally in the time since they’d moved in, aside from the addition of the TV in front of them, which his brother had been allegedly watching when he’d come in and settled down following his meeting with Hannah. The emphasis on allegedly came from the fact that not once had the archangel, who usually couldn’t shut up, rattle off a snarky comment in the fifteen minutes he’d been there, and the TV was set to CSI: Miami, a show for which he had nothing but contempt. 

“Cas,” a croaky voice answered, as the blankets fell away just minutely to reveal the messy hair and unreadable expression of the archangel on the couch with him. “Can I help you?”

The sass was asinine in tone. “Why aren’t you transcribing Metatron’s writings with Sam?”

“Seriously?” Flatness this time. Gabriel averted his eyes, this time genuinely looking to the TV for a distraction, where an unrealistically fast montage was occurring to signal the analyzation of DNA. “Take a guess, Cas. I’m old news to him. As I should be. I’m nothing but a choked up, broken shell of an archangel anyway.”

Rolling in his sorrows. Typical. He obviously wasn’t a shell of an archangel since he was indulging himself with pity, which was a trademark of all of them. The end of his statement was accompanied with a shift downwards in volume, bitterness saturating his voice when he added, “And Metatron’s diary is no fun to read alone. Not when there’s no one to poke fun with whenever that dickbag forgets a comma or monologues about himself like he’s freakin’ Harry Potter.”

“I think Sam’s just trying to help Jessica reacquaint herself with being alive. There’s no need to jump to conclusions.”

If by reacquainting herself with being alive again, Cas meant that Sam was engaged in copious amounts of giggling, lovestruck nonsense with the chick, he’d be right. But he didn’t mean that. Cas was trying to cheer him up, obviously, both poorly, and also pointlessly, as nothing could make him feel better about getting so close to happiness only to have it ripped away by some perky blonde who was supposed to have died extra crispy over a decade ago. Every second he spent by himself was another second of all-consuming loneliness where he compared himself to all that which outshone him. Without Sam to chat his ear off and slip an arm around his shoulders, usually to offer him coffee or candy, he was forced to recall his current helplessness and inadequacies as a human being, wingless and pathetic, with no real skills to speak of.

His soul itself felt cold like this. Naked. Sam had kept him busy in more ways than one. Thinking of ways to one day tie up those lovely, long moose locks of his when he was sleeping, or dramatically reading Metatron’s journal in a weird, Cockney accent as the hunter chuckled, unable to keep up his annoyed facade in light of Gabriel’s own ridiculous antics. He made Gabe’s coffee better than Gabe had ever made his own coffee, somehow, and let his shoulder play as pillow for the depowered archangel whenever he got tired into the evening, and more of his grace seemingly disappeared into nothingness. 

He hadn’t realized it, but he had spent an excessive amount of time with the hunter, and now, without it, he was surrounded with silence that his cruel, capricious mind felt the need to fill with whispers about what a failure he really was. All his brothers were kings in their own rights, and presumably still with juice, whereas he was...well. A runaway. A delinquent, deflective asshole who couldn’t deal with his problems. Not that the other archangels didn’t have flaws of course; he could list them without so much as a breath. But at least they’d done something. He lived for nothing. Stood for nothing. He’d been running since essentially the start of time. And now? He was exhausted, and in his pause to catch his breath, the silence was deafening.

All he wanted was to sleep. To sink into nonexistence, where he probably belonged. He sure as hell wasn’t helping anyone here with being alive, hence the pile of blankets and pillows. He was trying to escape. The darkness felt protective nowadays. A comfort, where his wings used to be, before they dissolved to scantily clad bones, brittle and ready to crumble into dust, with dry, harshly weathered feathers that more resembled a sandy grey than his original gold.

“You should talk to him,” Cas suggested softly, words that only served to make him want to tightly shut his eyes in an effort to prevent tears from escaping. 

It was a noble effort, this. Cas was noble. Too good for this world. Too pure. Ambriel as well. He missed her being around the house, making unreasonable inquiries about objects, people, behavior and anything else that dare crossed her mind or vision, simply because she wanted to know. She wanted to experience everything she could in her time on Earth. But sadly, the pure and the noble left little a mark on his desire to move from his current position. If anything else, it further deflated it, because he knew it wasn’t worth it. 

Still, he bit. “And say what? ‘Hey, Sammykins, could you possibly spend a little less time with the love of your life that’s been dead for longer than you and I have known each other so you can put in a little bit of charity work for your pathetic neighborhood archangel’? Yes, Cas. That will work so well. Look, I’m not getting in his way. You know, this is good for him! He deserves to be happy. And me? Well, I’m just fine.” _He wasn’t._ “I’ve come back from worse than this, Cas.” _He hadn’t._ “We’re all gonna be fine. Just gotta give it some time.” _As if._

As though this were a stage cue, at the sound of a door opening, and a small cascade of laughter bouncing across the hallway, the very Winchester they had just spoke of entered, splitting paths with the vivacious blonde heading back towards her room before heading over towards them, smile still evident on his face.

The sight of it immediately caused the archangel to return to the blankets, heart cold, as Sam approached, eventually settling a hand down on the back of the couch, the glee slipping off his face as he noticed first the huddled up angel and his distant proximity to his brother, then what was on the TV, expression contorting into confusion with an undertone of judgement. 

“CSI: Miami? Really? I thought Dean literally blocked this channel because of how many procedurals they play.”

Cas shrugged in response, standing up and tucking his hands into his pockets. He knew this was as good a moment to leave as any, and it would provide his brother with the opportunity to get some much-needed content off his chest to the hunter. “Speaking of Dean, I’m going to go check in on him and John. See if they need anything.”

It was not a sentence said with joy, or any happy inflection in his tone whatsoever, and it showed, at least to Sam, who watched the angel silently sashay away, right past him and into the hallway, leaving his seat open for the taking, an offer quickly closed upon by the hunter, who was beginning to feel his throat thicken with the words left unsaid in the room. It wasn’t that he didn’t know what he was walking into. He absolutely, irrevocably did; it just didn’t make this any easier.

“Hey. You alright?”

Stupid words, in hindsight. Funny, the first sentence to leave his mouth being a mistake, and he knew it from the moment the archangel turned narrow, gold-flecked irises in his direction, their inner thoughts sheathed in heavier mist than he’d ever seen before. It was a clear precursor of what was to come. Gabriel, crawling back inside the shell he was so comfortable with staying in, and Sam desperately trying to explain, as if to a five-year-old, that adults need time to themselves sometimes too, and that it wasn’t at all personal, the fact that the two of them hadn’t really spoken much to each other since John, Mary, and Jessica had arrived.

He hadn’t intended to neglect the Trickster, but, knowing how childish Gabriel could be, he had a feeling that he had taken it with malice and deliberate misgiving, especially since they had spent the majority of their days together recently. He only hoped Gabe hadn’t decided to set up shop in being mad at him. Not only would it hinder any attempts to figure out what was going with his grace and how to stop it, but Sam also didn’t want to lose any progress he’d made with the archangel over the past few months. He actually felt reasonably close to him, as close as Gabriel let anyone, at least, up until this particular moment, when the ex-Trickster eventually responded, sounding unaffected, “Peachy.” 

No playful variation on his name was attached to the statement, which wasn’t exactly a good sign, but Sam still tried to retain hope. “You?” He was startled to hear a follow-up to the comment, but Gabe was no longer looking at him when he spoke. 

Ah. This was how it was going to be. Awkward. Cold. Distant. He had thought Gabriel would be spiteful, but this was worse, somehow. At least if he were yelling at him, he was expressing emotion rather than cutting himself off from the hunter absolutely. They’d backslid more in their relationship than he’d anticipated. Not exactly the best news, but he would try to work with it.

“Great,” he answered evenly, not looking away from the golden-haired lump on the couch. “Um. It’s just been kind of busy, with everything. Raphael, and Mom and Dad, and uh, Jess too. This is all a lot for them to take in, you know? Mom thinks we can just call the Internet, like it is a physical being.”

Gabe snorted, barely audible beneath his many blankets, but said nothing, further confirming the fact that he wasn’t so much angry as excluded. Which had been the direct opposite of the kind of environment Sam had been trying to provide for him in lieu of Dean suspiciousness around the guy, and Cas’s blindness to his brother’s existence since he’d moved in. The guilt felt like ten solid pounds of bricks sitting directly on his ribs, but he merely swallowed, trying to ignore it, and spoke candidly, “So...Jess and I talked and...we’re getting back together. We’re going to try and make it work, even with hunting, and this drama with Raphael. I...wanted to try and keep her away from it. Out of this life. So after all of this is over with, and heaven is stable again, I think that I’m retiring, officially. Not sure where to, yet. Maybe I’ll go back to Stanford, finally finish that law degree, or maybe we’ll settle down on the coast and I can get a job at a library or something. I don’t know. But this is...I think...the motivation I needed to pull myself up and out of whatever I’ve been going through recently.” 

The words blurred together as he heard them. Their meaning clear, but the action of understanding being slowed down with each extra syllable by his own reluctance to accept, or even compute them without revealing on his face just how much the sentences felt like being repeatedly stabbed in the gut by the hunter with a real, freshly sharpened archangel blade. Each revelation was like a different beating, leaving deep, purple contusions in place of their realizations, none of which were surprising, but disappointing all the same.

He found himself unable to even so much as glance in Sam’s direction, as it would have been the death blow to end the pathetic popsicle stick tower that currently comprised his facade. If he weren’t an awful person, he would have been pleased for Sam, and were he the friend he should have been, he would have actually been happy, and expressed that, but he was still a selfish, vengeful archangel, wings or no wings.

Maybe this was how Lucifer had felt when humanity was created. Like he was good, but just not quite good enough to make their father happy. He fell just shy of that marker, always reaching, but never achieving what he needed to in order to fulfill the expectations set out for him. If this were the case, Gabriel felt some of his anger towards his brother slip away into the gutter. This was the worst feeling he’d ever experienced in his entire immortal existence. If Lucifer had flipped shit because of it, he couldn’t even blame him. 

He’d never been good enough for his siblings, and he’d known that from the very beginning. Never been good enough for his dad. He’d made his peace with that. Not quite good enough for Cas. That one had hurt like a bitch, but he’d been working to move past it. But this? This hurt worse. He’d given his all to this stupid, tall human, with his dumb smile and worn-out plaid shirts plucked out of thrift stores for discount rates. He’d opened up a part of himself that he’d never discussed with anyone, even Cas, with this freaking Moose, who he had actually thought cared about him only for...this bullshit to come raining down on their lives?

Gabriel wanted to personally execute whoever was responsible for bringing back what was supposed to stay dead. If that meant he himself remained a corpse, oh well. It was better than this...feeling...in his chest. Anything was better. Tortured by Lucifer? He would take it. Being sold out by the Pagan gods? Still preferable.

Because this, all of this, just further confirmed what he’d known all along, the advice he had given repeatedly to Cas and then ignored himself when he fell a little bit too far into the rabbit hole with Sam: The Winchesters were a cancer, and he had a family history of illness. It was stupid to get involved with them, and yet, he had. Idiot. _Idiot._

It took more willpower than he knew he even had to finally meet the hunter’s face, which was, annoyingly, staring at him with something that resembled concern, if Gabe didn’t know better. He didn’t care. Obviously. Why would he? What reason had Gabriel ever given him to?

“Congrats, kiddo. You deserve to be happy. I’m glad you’re finally getting off your moose ass and doing something to make it happen.”

The ignorant but beautiful smile he got in response as a reward for his convincing lie was enough of a confirmation as any to what he had been thinking all along. He could’ve never been a part of that happy ending for Sam, regardless of the undead walking around their house. If domesticity was the ultimate endgame, he supposed he never really had a chance, with what he was. Who he was. Star-crossed from the beginning, he supposed. Not to mention the fact that it wasn’t mutual. Talk about misreading signals. 

In all this misleading camaraderie, and his desperate attempt to keep ahold of his relationship with Cas, and mostly failing, he’d forgotten his role in the proceedings. Cas’s older brother. Trickster. Liar. Archangel, or a sad excuse for one. That was who he was, apocalypse or no apocalypse, wings or no wings, and nothing would ever change that. It wasn’t as if he’d grown since he’d been here. He was still bitter and reserved, and covered up all his insecurities with rude humor and deceit. That was just who he was at this point. It’s all he would ever be.

And as he’d so crassly told the brothers almost a decade ago, it was time to play their roles. Just as it was time to play his.

He simply wished it were easier.


	13. The Difference Between Us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sidenote: It's sad. Ripe with pain. 7.8/10 for too much heartache while writing.

It came to the point where he’d started picking them off himself, the feathers. Like loose teeth, they parted easily with a bit of force, and though it stung, it was still a better feeling than the stabbing sensation he got from time to time whenever he was around a specific duo now living in the Bunker, with their eyes lit up like stars whenever they looked at one another. Each glance served as yet another metaphorical knife in his sternum, which he less than appreciated, but kept his mouth mostly shut about, partially because he saw less and less of the fluffy-haired moose and the golden-haired ex-veterinarian wannabe due to the private nature of ‘catching up,’ whatever the hell that meant. 

Gabriel supposed that, in an ideal world, that maybe consisted of aquarium dates and the occasional, single kiss to qualify as PDA, and yes, he should have been able to just move on from that, but there was something about being demoted to a fleshy sack of working organs and actual blood vessels that had him more than a little tied to the fact that someone still cared about him. Cas did as well, but that this wasn’t about him. This was about watching romcoms and baring extremely personal admissions to a guy who, all other things considered, had given him every conceivable signal of mutual attraction imaginable over the past couple months, stopping just shy of actually asking him out, and then upped and more or less abandoned him for the long-dead love of his life who’d gotten Kentucky deep-fried on a Stanford ceiling some ten, fifteen years ago. 

Then again, he wasn’t seeing clearly. Sitting on the couch currently, curled up against the edge, with a plaid blanket thrown over his shoulders because the Bunker had turned into a Winter Wonderland overnight, and his ears trying to close themselves so that he could save himself from the conversation occurring behind him, he was forced to reluctantly admit that he wasn’t thinking rationally on this. Traveling with Cas had made him soft, and living here had only expanded on that issue. It was possible that he had been misinterpreting gestures of kindness as romantic, except, it was a little difficult to read Sam as platonic when he had eyes that seemed to crawl into the angel’s soul and forcefully sew together every broken shard left in there over the years, back into something resembling trust. Trust which now was beginning to rapidly unwind, with stitches breaking wide open. 

And God, it hurt. It shouldn’t have. He literally fucking knew better than this. He told Cas himself multiple times that the Winchesters were the worst kind of people to fall for, not because of who they were, but what they’d been through. The brothers were the definition of damaged goods, both of them, and to lay down and take the constant beating that was being an unaccounted for element in their lives when everything was always shifting, and with a whiplash-worthy pace? It wasn’t foolish. It was fucking stupid. He was fucking stupid, falling for this bullshit.

He should have anticipated the crowd of dead people seated at the table. Now how he could have done so, he didn’t really know, but either way, stumbling into the trap of Sam Winchester’s pretty face and dazzling puppy eyes had been a mistake. 

“Gabriel.” 

Cas was speaking. He turned his head, expression blank as he met his younger brother’s eyes, which were, interestingly enough, also a mask of emotions. Hm. Curious. “Yeah?”

“You should join us for dinner. I’m starting to feel outnumbered.”

He pulled a smile, a playful, fake one as usual, and crawled off the couch, not bothering to slip the shawl off his shoulders as he approached the table, where an open seat was present beside where Cas would presumably be, and another empty seat seemingly reserved for no one but the ghost of whomever else was supposed to come and represent the angelic family aside from them. John and Dean had already sat down, as had Jessica, even though Sam was in the process of setting down dishes with his mother. The entire sight was like a surreal nightmare that he couldn’t seem to wake up from, no matter how hard he tried. 

Cautiously, he took a seat, taking note of how nervously Dean glanced at his father, as though still vying for his approval as they conversed lightly. The words were lost to him, however. He wasn’t paying so much attention to those as to the smile that found his wandering eyes when he glanced up in time to see Sam placing a large basin of smoothly churned mashed potatoes in the center of the right end of the table. “Hey, I’m glad you’re joining us. I think you’ll really like the food.” 

This troublesome, newly human heart of his skipped a solid beat, and he inhaled sharply, barely picking up the edge of his lips in a sad attempt at a smile. As he averted his eyes, internally cursing himself for being so stupid to ever land in a situation remotely resembling this one, he swore he saw the hunter visibly identify his bullshit, not that it mattered. He didn’t even feel like himself hardly anymore, with only the bare bones of his wings remaining at this point, and even those in the process of hollowing themselves out to make room for the heaviness of self-hatred and shame that would eventually break them. His entire being felt cold, not simply from the frigid temperatures of the Bunker but also from within his own very mortal body, where that fragile, throbbing heart resided. He was a shell of who he’d been years ago, and while that may have been a good thing, he couldn’t entirely get with that logic.

After all, what else could he do, to be better than he was? Humanity aside, he had been attempting to be less of an asshole, by playing fewer tricks and pranks, and hey, he actually stopped giving douchebags their just desserts and made up with his brother! But still, that wasn’t enough for him to actually win to this...this…

He was pissed off that he couldn’t even find a decent way to insult her. It was probably appropriate, how perfect she was, considering that Sam was literally, by all counts, the most wonderful human being Gabriel had ever met, personality and all, and he deserved someone equally as stunning and incredible as he was, but it definitely didn’t make the Trickster any less displeased about that person being Jessica. Sure, there wasn’t anything immediately wrong with her: her teeth were a radiant white, and her hair fell in sunlit, enviously frizz-free curls down her back, and her personality as he’d gotten to see thus far was delightfully personable. She was grossly perfect, but in a different way than Sam. This chick had never seen what he’d seen. Been what he’d been through. Her happiness was ignorance, not resilience, like his.

Cas took his seat beside Gabriel, posture stiff and clothing overly formal as always. Perhaps he was trying to make a good impression on the in-laws that had yet to realize they were in-laws. Or, it was just Cas being Cas. Mostly likely both. Sam followed that motion a moment later, settling in beside Jessica and across from his brother’s husband, and Mary seated herself next to John, patiently crossing her hands and politely waiting for the table to quiet down, since little snippets were still flying every which way between the family members and honorable considerations, excluding the angel duo. 

Gabriel shifted slightly, adjusting the blanket around his shoulders and feeling underdressed for this occasion he hadn’t even planned on attending. He had actually been planning on being out of the house during this time, seeing as he didn’t want any reminders of Sunday dinners in heaven with his own family, but had missed his shot when he’d fallen asleep watching Downton Abbey--by himself--and had awoken shortly before Cas has swung by to request his presence.

The Bunker was unproductive as of late. No one seemed to do much work anymore, least of all him, as his redeemable talents related to any current events were out of working order for the foreseeable future. Not that this was commented upon by anyone other than John, who, if Gabe had his grace in condition, would have already had his ass thrown seven flights downstairs by both angels if he wasn’t father to Sam and Dean. The man was more of a piece of work than Gabe had thought possible, and he’d practically written the book on what it was like to deal with an avoidant, insecure jackass for a dad. He thought he had it bad. But man.

John Winchester was the kind of person that the Trickster would have given just desserts to in a heartbeat—albeit not his own, since the Trickster was a persona that still had powers and wasn’t tied down to this shit show by his own mortality and slowly disintegrating hope that maybe this is all a bad dream, from the face behind the mashed potatoes to the extremely tense, pale fists beside him. Cas was about ⅕ of an inch away from losing his cool with John, between his own tensions with Dean and then how the guy treated Dean whenever Mary’s back was turned. And in lieu of being able to deliver the justice himself, Gabriel was looking forward to see it all explode into confetti around him.

Fortunately, Mary needn’t have waited for the silence to befall them naturally.. The entire table fell to a hush as a bold voice exclaimed from the kitchen, “Wait! Wait! The main course!” and Cas suppressed a chuckle underneath his breath. Gabriel tilted his head to the side, well aware that he’d heard the voice before, but didn’t wasn’t able to ransack his memories for who before the owner came barreling through the doorway, a giant turkey plated above the dishrags on her palms, and her glasses speckled with what appeared to be gravy. 

Upon setting the dish down, and using the small rag to get at her glasses, she was also the first to speak to him. “Gabriel!” Ambriel said cheerfully, straightening up and walking around the table, behind a a visibly awkward Dean to pull him out of his seat for a hug he wasn’t prepared for. He hadn’t known she would be coming today, but maybe he should have, in hindsight. No one else in the Bunker truly cooked, especially for a full size family, yet, he had assumed she would at least give some kind of warning, either to Cas or himself that she would be dropping by.

It was good news. The best news that he’d received in a while, really, which was what finally spurred him to returning the gesture, feeling his face arrange into a real smile for the first time in weeks. “Ambriel,” he managed at last, after she withdrew from his arms. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“It was a surprise! Cas called me up and invited me. Something about a family reunion? I don’t know. I’m excited to meet everyone. I thought everyone Sam and Dean loved died.”

Gabriel had nearly forgotten how nonchalant her tone was when breaking all acceptable social protocol, and fought a chuckle at her statement. “Nothing apparently stays dead anymore, haven’t you heard?” He spoke softly, placing a wink at the end of his sentence half-heartedly, turning away before having to bear witness to his tablemates’ reactions. 

“No. I hadn’t. Fascinating.” She took the previously empty seat beside him then, scooting inward with a bright smile in Mary’s direction, which the hunter likely took with politeness. 

“Alright,” John spoke loudly, interrupting any small bits of noise still going on a few moments later, like Cas unwrapping his silverware, or Jess accidentally nudging her plate with one of the wine glasses Gabe never recalled them having until now. “Would anyone like to lead us in prayer?”

Oh, hell. He had to be joking. 

Gabriel wasn’t going to make it through this dinner alive out of choice if he wasn’t. Praying? Seriously? This wretched, awful man, praying? That wasn’t unbelievable, but...really? In the presence of angels? Really?

He glanced at Cas to see that his brother’s confused expression did not disappoint. However, the angel didn’t have time to craft a reasonable argument as to why this tradition seemed pointless in this setting before John had set his eyes upon their side of their table, glancing between the three of them. “Do you have faith?” he asked in a grave voice.

“Dad,” Dean started immediately, “They’re angels. So yes.”

Heh. Hilarious. Yeah, no. Gabriel hadn’t had a lick of faith in heaven or in his father in several millenia at the minimum. Actually, he didn’t have faith in hardly anything, excluding maybe Ambriel and Cas. 

John glanced at his son, expression unreadable, and continued, “Angels...right,” before bowing his head and beginning a very familiar verse that Gabriel had heard many times, back when he’d sat with his brothers by the throne, listening to people pledge their trust in God. They had believed he would protect them, their valuables, and all the relationships they held dear. That each person was underneath his holy gaze and proverbial wings, their future being carefully set out by the man himself, like he had infinite time to do so. Like he cared to do so. 

Gabe didn’t bother with the foolish clasped hands, fingers interlocked between each other when he shut his eyes. God didn’t care. He hadn’t in a long time. Maybe he never had. The confrontation he’d had with the man in a bar bordering two years ago hadn’t eased any insecurities he had with his family or humanity. To him, the apocalypse, walking out, it had always been a wrong that could not be undone. Forcing the brothers to turn on each other. Ruining everything for them. 

He’d loved his family more than anything, once. And now, even the fondest memories he had of them hurt because of what he knew was going to pass eventually. The apocalypse was inevitable, and God didn’t care that that meant the end times for humanity or for angels and demons. His sons? Nothing. Each, individual pinprick of human life dotted upon this Earth, praying to the Father of Creation like John Winchester currently did? Nothing. God didn’t give a damn.

This was all without purpose. 

“Amen.”

The clatter of silver knives and porcelain plates then filled the emptiness. Gabriel moved without thinking, the gestures as automatic as he’d seen them on television as he grabbed a scoopful of mashed potatoes, and a few pieces of turkey. It was taking every ounce of focus he possessed to remain elsewhere in his mind, so that this didn’t feel exactly like heaven, where he was miserable, alone, and ignored whilst bigger squabbles raged on in the background. True, he had Ambriel and Cas here, but that was a small piece of a bigger issue. His grace. Raphael. Sam. He couldn’t solve anything, even with them. So the white noise in his head grew louder and louder with each second he spent struggling to find silence. 

“So, angels, huh? You hunt them, evidently, judging from this whole Raphael situation, and yet you claim to be best friends with one? I gotta hear the story behind this one, boys. I always thought hunting was always fairly black and white.”

John. Instigating. Of course. Cas tensed beside his husband, mentally noting that this was merely the beginning of what was bound to be an extremely sensitive dinner, and elected to speak. “I fell from heaven for Dean and Sam. It’s fairly simple. I disagreed with what my family was doing, and I wanted to do right by humanity, which was the route your sons seemed to be taking.”

“Okay.” The man seemed to take this explanation better than Cas had been expecting, raising his eyebrows and nodding. However, a second later, he’d emerged with another inquiry, this time to Gabriel and Ambriel. “And you two followed, I assume?”

“Huh? Oh. Kind of. I was a post-apocalypse addition to the team. Gabe offered to show me Earth, and I figured I wouldn't be missed, so I skipped out." Ambriel, as per her usual self, was flippant and cheerful in her response.

“Do you like it? Earth?” Mary asked.

“Oh, absolutely! I don't really care much for the cold weather, but other than that, I find it delightful. My favorite things are the bees. And it's so weird too, because I was terrified of them at first! But it turns out they are harmless, like most everything else here."

Cas hid his smile at the mention of their shared favorite creature. It was true. She had been absolutely petrified when one landed on her nose when they had been searching for his grace. But Ambriel had grown up since then. She’d not lost her naivety, but the fear had since passed when it came to Earthly creations.

"I take it angels are durable then?" John asked. 

“You could say that. Our species has much improved stamina in comparison to humanity. Not that it presents any problems.”

Cas felt three sets of eyes fall on him, one in surprise, another in fear, and one in questioning. He’d merely been referring to hunting. Why was Dean looking at him like he’d made a social faux pas? He was merely trying to get along with John; answer his questions as accurately and honestly as possible.

Ambriel broke the silence. “Oh. I forgot the pie,” she mumbled disappointedly. Setting the fork she’d had in hand aside, she sprung up from her seat and drifted into the other room, where her voice could be heard echoing back to them. “Would you like apple or cherry?”

“Both. All of it. All of the pie.” The line came expectedly from Dean, who had straightened up as soon as the decadent dessert was mentioned. He cleared his throat before addressing the elephant in the room. “As it turns out, most angels are winged douchebags. But Cas, Gabe, Ambriel? They’re good people.”

“Good angels, you mean,” John corrected him with stern eyes. Dean immediately averted his gaze, facial features tightening as he swallowed a small lump in his throat that had nothing to do with the food on his plate.

Cas felt anger surge through his veins. “John,” Mary muttered tersely, narrowing her gaze in her husband’s direction. John let out a small grumble, returning his attention to his potatoes, but otherwise remained silent, paving the way for Jess to clap her hands together, attracting everyone’s attention for what was, perhaps, a much-needed topic change.

“So, we were waiting to announce this until after this drama with Raphael is over with, but Sam and I are back together. I know hunting is a tough lifestyle, and it’s extremely dangerous, but we are going to try and make this work. We never got the chance to see it through the last time, so it’s only fair that we give it, and us, the shot it deserves.”

She was a like a Barbie doll. Bright, unblemished teeth, grinning at Sam to see his reaction to the news before anyone else. Classy, beach-curled blonde hair flipping as she then turned to Mary to accept congratulations. And her tone, full of expectation of joy, of happiness, like she’d been raised in a damn dream house by the perfect nuclear family to become prom queen and valedictorian all in the same year, it was all just so...painfully unreal. No one existed without damages in this world. They were visible, tangible things after a while, when you were practiced at identifying them.

Cas had gotten learned in this art through both personal experience and through his brother’s teachings. His brother, who was looking anywhere but at the happy couple, seeking an escape from this very universe they currently sat in. This was all traumatizing for him, Cas assumed. Dredging up old memories of heaven. Family dinners had never had a positive connotation for Gabriel. In fact, even their Sunday evenings spent collectively on Chinese food were something he refused to call by its proper name. And Sam and Jessica, their announcement, was just salt in the wound. 

He’d done a myriad of foolish things in his life, but he was, make no mistake, no fool. He’d seen his brother’s interactions with Sam. How open he’d become. For him, that was the unthinkable. There were things about Gabriel that Cas was certain he would never know, things he would never reveal, even if he were on his deathbed. His brother was the definition of damaged good as well as everyone else who sat at this table, sans the blonde beside the Moose. He saw nothing from her. If it had been an outlook-altering, life-changing experience to be dwelt upon in her spare time that she had burned on a ceiling because her boyfriend was the vessel for Satan, it didn’t show on her face, now or ever. 

And for that reason, he didn’t trust her. Not because Gabriel hated her, or the fact that she had risen from the grave with no explanation, although that last bit certainly didn’t help. He didn’t trust her because she wasn’t genuine. Everyone had something. Some kind of baggage that kept them awake at night. For Dean, it was his relationship with his father, his fear of never being good enough for his family or for Cas. For Sam, it was the plethora of unhappy memories he associated with hunting, and the faces they’d lost in their line of work. He could make assumptions for John and Mary. Gabriel didn’t even need to be spoken for. But Jess? Jess always slept soundly, with no issues getting to or from the destination of dreamland.

It was suspicious. 

“I’m going to go check on Ambriel. See if she needs any help.” 

It didn’t surprise Cas when his brother rose from his seat beside him, his plate looking relatively untouched, and disappeared with haste around the corner. However, the abrupt movement of Sam across from him was a bit of a shock, as he stammered an audibly uncertain, “Right. I forgot all about dessert. Excuse me.” He then stood, taking off just as Gabriel had moments before, for reasons not entirely concrete to Cas.

Unlike his brother, he was able to recognize and acknowledge the mutual feelings the hunter shared with the archangel, hence why this union between him and Jess had caught Cas so offguard when Gabe had mentioned it to him a few days ago. He hadn’t figured Sam was the type to drop everything between them just because an old girlfriend had come back from the grave, but, he didn’t know the hold Jess had over him. He knew that Sam had loved her. Evidently more than he thought, since he was risking Gabriel’s confidence to try their relationship again, and he did value that. Of this, Cas was sure. He knew Sam. And Sam cared, even when it was best not to, as was evidenced by his sudden departure from the table to follow his brother into the dark. Make sure he was okay.

Sam, alternatively, was hoping his intentions were as transparent to the rest of his family as they were to Cas and Dean, slipping around the bend and heading down the hallway just a few feet before spotting the archangel standing just shy of the kitchen, oddly frozen, as though time itself had slowed to a halt around him. He could hear Ambriel dropping things in the room next to them, the sounds of a pan clattering to the floor, and a startled ‘Whoops!’ the only real signals that there was life in the Bunker outside the dining room. 

“Gabe.”

He didn’t want to hear it. That word. From that mouth. Those lips had touched his once, in drunken, sleepy delusion, and that was all that this really was, when it came down to it. Just one long, pathetic, aching fever dream destined to end in death. He was an absolute idiot for ever stepping foot in this fortress voluntarily. That family in there wasn’t his. They maybe felt like it, for a while, but that was temporary. Everything was temporary. This was no home for him. No safe haven. He was capricious, and there was no rest for the wicked. No time for settling. No justice.

“Sam. Can I help you?” He whirled around, pasting a smile on his face with physical pain at the required effort. The face he met when he turned did itself no favors in attempting to hide the complicated, fake emotions present on it. He had to believe they were fake at least. Or else this would hurt more than it already did. There was a significant difference between being a pet project and being good but not good enough. And in his opinion, he would’ve rather been out of the running entirely than the latter. That was just another stab to the back, like his brothers, like Cas. 

Despite his rushed statement and the quickness he’d taken to catch up to him, the Moose was suddenly very hesitant in his next sentence. “Yeah. Um, what’s up with you, exactly?”

“Oh, the usual. I finished another season of Downton Abbey. Finale really shook me. I can’t believe they killed Matthew after all he went through with Mary. Unbelievable. I liked that guy too.” 

“That’s not what I meant.” 

“Oh really? My bad. Could you pretty please be more specific then, as to what you want from me?” The double meaning at the end left a sharp, sarcastic tone in his voice as he spoke, unintentionally asinine in his delivery. 

Sam tilted his head to the side, expression shifting to one of a person holding the high ground in the argument. Bold of him to assume such a position. Like he’d done nothing wrong here. Apparently ditching a wounded, emotionally vulnerable archangel for his reanimated corpse girlfriend didn’t count. “You’re acting weird. Do you feel alright? Is it your grace?”

He drew blood biting down on his tongue right then. The things he wanted to scream, the words left unsaid between them, as though they’d backstepped in time a couple years and he was playing Cas and Sam was playing Dean. How long could they go without discussing the darkness neither dared to bring up? Because he was suffocating in those few moments Sam spent staring at him, waiting for a response he wasn’t going to receive. He wasn’t going to make it much longer in the gaps of silence, not without literally screeching like a harpie what he wanted to say. 

_It’s_ you. _You’re_ _doing this to me, you big oaf. You stupid, tall, beautiful genius, with your dumb, perfect hair and smile that actually makes my insides melt into gelatinous, cosmic soup._ You’re _doing this, because you made me feel like I was something more than just a fuck-up for five minutes, but now, the moment is over and reality is crushing me with the weight of the dad-damn Eiffel Tower, because I’m not important to you anymore. And to be completely honest, each second more that passes by, I become more and more convinced that I never was._

When he felt the hands gingerly wrap themselves around his upper arms, he immediately jerked back, slamming the back of his head against the wall as he did so, and Sam quickly leapt forward to try and steady him to no avail as he backed up, keeping his distance from the hunter. His brain felt like it was ringing as he recognized the voice accompanying the frantic hands seeking to balance him and assess his condition. “Gabe! Hey. Whoa. Are you okay?”

“No,” he managed. It was a regular Freudian slip, but it opened the door the two had very delicately been dancing around for a while. A door, frankly, that poured out of his mouth as soon as his vision settled and he could properly stand again, taking special care to avoid any touches from the human across from him. “Why the fuck would I be okay, Sam? Have you seen my life recently?”

The hunter in question averted his eyes, lips tightening into the guilty line he got whenever he believed he was in the wrong for once. But he still made to open his mouth and respond, albeit too late, as Gabe started in before he got the chance to make his words known.

“My wings are broken. My grace is gone. I have nothing. And don’t give me that bullshit line about you and Cas and Dean either, because that isn’t true and you and I both know it. Maybe once upon a time I would have believed that, but that was before ol’ Daddy dearest, Mother Mary and your smokin’ hot girlfriend decided to waltz in here and make themselves at home, so don’t. Just...leave me alone, alright? It’s the least you could do.”

“I’m sorry?” Sam sounded confused with his words, but his expression betrayed aggression. “Look, I know things have been tough recently, and I...I can’t even imagine what being without your powers is like. But there’s no reason to act like you have no support system. Dean and I have tried to make the Bunker as much as a home for you as possible, and our family coming back shouldn’t have changed anything about that for you. We’re all still here for you. Don’t get mean.”

“Oh, are you?” Gabe drawled sarcastically, his theatrics showing their face for the first time since he’d started losing feathers around the house. He knew he’d gone down the rabbit hole now, and although his brain was strongly advising him to stop, that saying anything else would be a very large mistake, he ventured onwards anyway on advice from the aching organ in his chest. “Really? Because last time I checked, I have transcribed the past seven chapters of Metatron’s god complex monologues by myself. And it’s, see, it’s odd, because I remember, and bear with me, as this sounds crazy, I know, but I recall you and I doing them together back in the day.”

“I...I’ve been busy, alright? We talked about this. And no one said you had to do those in your spare time.” Defensive. But it still hurt. It all hurt. The more words Gabe said, the more stitches came loose. He was bleeding emotions, all of which were painful. 

“Wow, you deserve an award for missing the point by such a large margin, Sam. This isn’t about my brother’s diaries, or how many blankets you set out for me. It’s about you.” He was delving into dangerous territory now, littered with mine fields, but he couldn’t find the willpower to care. “Your brother couldn’t give a damn about me, and mine depends on the day, but you? Seriously? I thought--stupidly, I might add--that you actually cared. Yeah right. I guess I’m either the world’s dumbest bitch, or you’re the world’s greatest actor. Give yourself a pat on back, kid! You faked out the Trickster! Good job.” The last two words were his weakness, where the words broke in the middle with his voice as he dropped his gaze to his feet after an exceptionally eyebrow raise accompanied his last sentence.

Sam’s expression sunk to the bottom of the ocean, anger dissipating into backtracking. Excuses, excuses, excuses. Gabe could hear them now. The lies. The meaningless, powerful, joint tongue passed down the family line, the tongue of a snake, gifted in lying and trickery and deceit. He’d never had anything on these guys, as it turned out. All it took was a couple glances from a tall, floppy-haired dork with puppy eyes and a few too many nights falling asleep on said being’s shoulder, and his vessel capsized.

“That’s not...that is not at all how I feel. I do care about you, Gabe. I’m sorry if it hasn’t seemed like it recently. Truly. I know all of this has been hard on you more than anybody else, especially lately, but I promise, I never meant to make you feel...like I didn’t. I can’t give you all of my attention everyday though. I have other responsibilities, now that our folks are up and walking again. It’s nothing personal.”

“I’m not talking about them,” Gabriel interrupted darkly, before Sam could go any further, well aware that this was the tumultuous turn of their conversation, where he was about to pass the point of no return on this particular relationship. But between the pounding in the back of his skull and the tears he felt about to dot his eyes at how each of Sam’s responses made him feel like a misbehaving child responding to not getting Mommy and Daddy’s full attention, he was numb to the consequences.

When he saw the stone-cold bitchface in response to his comment, his heart shriveled slightly, recoiling as though suggesting he backpedal, try to mend what he said. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. “Jess has done literally nothing to you, except maybe take up my time, which isn’t unreasonable considering that she is my girlfriend.”

“Yes. The one that should have stayed dead.”

He knew he shouldn’t have said it. But the words came out as soon as he thought them. And although he wanted to take them back immediately, he couldn’t make Sam unhear them, couldn’t unsee the expression of the Moose when he looked up, eyes narrowed, nostrils flared, brows knit together in contempt and, worse off, pity.

“Wow,” he said softly, giving Gabe a quick, dismissive once-over before looking down and continuing, “Just...wow. Honestly. That’s a low blow, even for you, Gabriel. But you know what?” He took a second to swallow a lump in his throat before blinking a few times and returning to the archangel’s gaze to finish his statement. “It suits you. What I knew you to be, at least. And I wanted to think you changed, being with Cas, because you seemed so different, so willing to try and make a difference. But, as it turns out, you’re just the same old, pathetic runaway you’ve always been, blaming others for every inconvenience in your life. It was...optimistic of me to think you capable of being different from your brothers. And apparently foolish, seeing as you’re just as selfish and piteous as they are. I tell you what. If you hate it here that much, you know where the door is. Don’t let it hit you on the way out.” 

With a swish of that soft, supermodel-esque mop of his, he turned and abruptly walked back from the direction he had came from, legs stiff, leaving Gabriel in the hallway to sink slowly to the floor, his hands subconsciously reaching to run trembling fingers over the wound he’d sustained to the back of his head. They slowly slid over unruly clusters of hair back down to his lap, where they lay stained with blood as he leaned up against the wall, listening to the sounds of laughter erupt in the other room.

And for the first time in a very long time on Earth, the archangel cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> like that, Gabe's self-destructive tendencies shine through for the first time since the Denial Twist. I feel bad for him though. Poor beeb. He always sounds much meaner than he is. Like to puff himself up, build the walls so nothing gets close, regardless of who he is knocking down in the process. Granted, Sam isn't actually vying for unofficial boyfriend of the year here, not that he is totally aware that he is in the running. Cas is the only one who truly knows what' s up. Ambriel just wants to impress everyone with her pies.


	14. Temporary Love

“I’ve never actually been to Lawrence before. Is it similar to Palo Alto at all?”

“Well, it’s definitely not as hot, so you might want to bring a coat.”

Sam couldn’t focus on her inquiry, not because he wasn’t trying, or that he couldn’t arrange his thoughts into coherent sentences, but because the words didn’t really sink any deeper than the cotton fibers of his clothing, not even bothering to meet his skin. He was unintentionally expelling anything to do with this trip for several reasons. Endangering Jess was merely one of many, but considering that they had limited options when it came to shielding her from hunting now that she did know his true profession, he didn’t really get a choice to just leave her at home. Especially since the remainder of their family was splitting off in the opposite direction chasing solutions to Raphael, which would leave her home alone if he were to go to Lawrence solo to track the grace trail of carnage left by one of the assassins dispatched by the archangel.

Well, almost. She would’ve actually been home with Gabriel, although one wouldn’t have presumed he was there if the past three days were any judgement. Sam himself had hardly seen hide nor hair of the ex-angel, and what little he had seen was quickly cut short by Gabriel tucking tail and practically bolting whenever Sam so much as entered a room, something he knew was his own fault. Even though the anger he’d felt erupt inside of him, conversely spilling out from his mouth whenever he made the uninformed decision to open it and talk, had mostly dissipated following Gabe’s unnecessary comment about his girlfriend, he still caught a spark now and then whenever he remembered it.

That being said, he understood why the archangel had said what he did. He had a point, although he’d expressed it rather poorly. This situation of mysteries they found themselves in with John, Mary, and Jess spelled bad news more clearly than the letters themselves did. Sam didn’t really believe in miracles anymore after over a decade of having his faith trampled upon by dickhead angels and God himself, and this couldn’t be an exception, even if he wanted it to be. Generally, as a rule, what’s dead should stay dead. Yes. But he got the feeling Gabe didn’t mean it logically. He was using it in the throes of a temper tantrum for not getting enough screen time. That much was made evident by the context.

Sam had also not been responding logically either though, to that comment in particular, which had no doubt spurred the fleeting glimpses of the Trickster throughout their home. They’d not spoken since. If he was being honest with himself, he felt the need to apologize. But on principle, he’d not done so yet, partially because he’d not had the time, and partially because he’d barely seen Gabriel since their confrontation. He wasn’t ready, even if those two factors weren’t in play though. He didn’t know how to approach what was wrong with what Gabe said whilst at the same time apologizing for how he’d reacted. Frankly, he was relieved that the angel had even stuck around after he’d more or less invited him to see himself out. But that was probably out of necessity more than desire. 

Ambriel had stuck around after their dinner, in and out as often as Cas usually was, including today, where he and Jess would be the last faces out of the Bunker excluding the one seen by barely anyone as of late. He’d been packed since 6am, but Jess had yet to announce herself as ready to depart yet, currently googling tripadvisor on the best tourist locations in a city where they were supposed to be tracking down an angel of death. Sam hadn’t a clue how to break that news to her though, so instead, he leaned up against the island in the kitchen, patiently awaiting her printed list of suggested locations while he scrolled through old pictures on his phone.

He didn’t have many recently, as things had gotten too hectic for artsy photography and goofing off, but there were a myriad of folders dated a few months back, where the covers showed either an image of Dean shoveling half a pie down his gullet, Castiel’s decidedly unphotogenic attempts at imitating the ladies on America’s Next Top Model, or, in the case of the folder he decided to explore, a selfie taken by Gabriel of the two of them outside of Devil’s Lake, when Cas had gotten distracted following a bee and Dean had rushed into a bakery because he ‘needed to use the bathroom’ and came out carrying a full dozen donuts.

The folder was full of mostly nonsense. There were some snapshots of dishes he’d prepared at home using this outdated cookbook they found in one of the many bookcases around the Bunker. A few unflattering photos of Dean eating whilst Cas looked on in admiration, then a couple where the latter was definitely not staring at his husband’s ass when he totally was. That one night where they had a Wii for about five minutes, when Gabriel still had his snapping rights and Dean wanted to try Dance Dance Revolution until he discovered Cas’s hidden talent at busting a move, then promptly exercised such force with his nunchuck that it slipped off his wrist and went barreling through a closed window out of sheer frustration. The slideshow then devolved as he came across images of Gabriel sleeping in what had to be impossibly uncomfortable positions for a normal person, a few selfies he thought for sure he had deleted and then, interestingly enough, a video.

He wasn’t a huge fan of hearing his voice on recordings, so he tried to avoid them where he could, and definitely wasn’t one for shooting film due to that. A few seconds in of blurry surroundings, and the camera had stabilized, revealing an awkward-looking but neatly dressed Castiel, glancing around in various directions as shapes passed behind them. Sam squinted a little bit before recognizing the setting. It was a restaurant in town, some small little diner called Florence’s, where they sometimes visited to celebrate special occasions. The camera then panned over to either side of him, where Dean sat to the left and Ambriel to the right.

“Are we ready?” Ambriel asked, excitement peeking through in her poorly concealed smile. Dean also looked particularly joyful on this day, although Cas had that deer-in-the-headlights gaze typical of him.  
Sam heard his own voice. “Yeah. Should we count off or just start?” The camera shifted to pan over to him, wearing a plaid button-down he thought he’d discarded a few months ago after a particularly gorey hunt where it had sustained blood trails not worth trying to scrub out. His hair was slightly shortly, as though it had recently been cut. Within moments of squinting at the screen, he realized when this must have been from. And who must have been recording.

“Depends on whether or not we plan on attacking it like you all hunt. Are we going at it with no plan whatsoever? Does one person run in blindly while others follow? Is someone going to sacrifice themselves for the greater good at the end of the first verse?” The cameraman was speaking now, in a deadpan the hunter hadn’t heard in a while. The voice was easily recognizable as Gabriel’s, but the tone wasn’t. Not lately.

“Okay, enough.” Dean cleared his throat, taking a deep breath before starting, “Happy birth--” and then being joined in noise by the others around the table, excluding Cas, who merely sat there, glancing sheepishly around. Both Winchesters were tonedeaf in trying to find the pitches, hence resulting in a grand variance of sound, but Ambriel managed to maintain a decent tune, whilst Gabriel, in all of his extra, melodramatic glory, improvised a harmony line. 

At the close, a cake clattered down in front of the angel, and Dean and Ambriel began to clap, as Sam heard himself inquire, “Wait. Were you recording that?”

“Of course, Sammich! It’s Cas’s first birthday. Kind of.”

He saw himself shrug, admitting truth in the statement, then follow up the conversation with an admission of, “True. Weird to think of it like that, but yeah, I guess you’re right. Shame that had to be the first ‘Happy Birthday’ sung to him though. Dean and I aren’t exactly choir boys. You sounded really good though. Ambriel too.”

“Don’t be so modest, kiddo. You’re a little pitchy, but it’s nothing we can’t fix.”

Sam laughed. “Are you offering to give me music lessons?” 

A soft, gentle, noncommittal “Maybe,” was heard behind the camera. Presently, even though Sam hadn’t seen a bit of the archangel in the video, he knew exactly what expression he was making. It was that same shy and wry smile that he hid to cover up the fact that he was having a good time. It had been a wonderful day, Cas’s birthday. 

The screen paused, and he felt his entire body deflate as he released a sigh, collapsing his back against the counter and head against the cabinets. He sincerely wished that things didn’t have to be like this. He had never anticipated being in a position where he’d have to choose between the bliss he’d had and what he had now. Because it was weird; he had felt, for a little while there, like he was being repaired. 

Now, he was attributing it to their family coming home and Jess joining him at his side with an eager grin and melodic laughter. And he thought things could only get better from here, even if he had began to first experience those careful, tentative hands of healing lay themselves upon his heart weeks before they arrived, when someone else was laying their head on his shoulder for lazy snoozes and whispering stupid, juvenile jokes into his ear that, for some reason, made him laugh. It was resilient hoping, and selfish hoping at that, that Jessica would bring him the same happiness he had in that video, back like when they were at Stanford, before his life crashed and burned on the ceiling and he ended up in this repetitive cycle of watching Dean and Cas make eyes at each other while he thirdwheeled every lunch they’d ever had. 

And it wasn’t fair to Gabriel, that the archangel had gone mostly ignored in the past few days because of that. He’d been the spark to end the monotony of Sam’s life, with his dumb but notably creative puns and gravitation towards the hunter. It sounded inconceivably lame, like some cheap romance novel left ruffled and abandoned at a Goodwill, but it was if Gabe had deliberately sought him out. There were a lot of reasons for that though, Sam was sure. He didn’t favor Dean at all, but it wasn’t as if he had to take to either of them for anything. He had family, like Cas and Ambriel who he could’ve spent time with, rather than some sad sack of regret like he was. And yet.

They’d become friends, then better friends, to something which had no name, and existed in the awkward space between romance and companionship. The signals were not easily interpretable as anything else on both sides, which was, admittedly, another reason why Sam hadn’t exactly been itching to spend copious amounts of time with Gabe since Jess had gotten back. How he was to devolve their friendship to just friendship, when it didn’t have a label as it stood. And now, he wasn’t even sure if what they had qualified as something as little as that. Gabe acted scared to be around him, as though Sam were about to start pelting more hurtful things at him at him at any given moment were they in the same shared space for longer than a minute and a half.

He sighed. He needed to apologize. That much was certain.

Jess entered the kitchen then, scrolls of paper clutched in her right hand as she rounded the bend and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips, catching him off guard. “I’m ready. Sorry for the wait. The internet is so different than what I remember it being.” He pulled a half-smile. “Are you ready to go?”

“Uh, almost, yeah. You can go ahead and get in the car. I’ll only be about five minutes.”

It was decided.

Jess nodded brightly, before leaning in once more, wrapping her arms around his neck and propelling herself forward on her toes to grin at him. “Okay. Don’t be late, Winchester. I might just decide to leave without you.” Then, pulling away, she turned, Mapquest rolls in hand and exited the kitchen, assumedly heading in the direction of the above-ground exit, leaving Sam to his previous task of debating the words he needed to out to the angel before departing.

After a few seconds more of ponderance, he urged himself from the counter and strolled out of the kitchen, intent on finding the guy somewhere in the Bunker. He might’ve not been there, if Sam’s guesses about him spending time with Ambriel held any weight, but he could cross his fingers and try at the very least.

The library was empty, and unusually clean without its usual amount of use by the two of them. The kitchen was obviously out, as he’d just been there. The common area held nothing of relevance to his objective, aside from maybe the discarded blanket and the TV that the angel had been using in excess to binge-watch Downton Abbey. That ruled out the general places Gabe frequented to in his giant amounts of leisure, but in his descent down the hallway to his room, he was nearly assaulted when the bathroom door sprung open and about popped him in the face.

He leaped back, startled, as the door was promptly closed and an actually awake archangel was revealed, hair combed and dressed in something other than the ‘pajama pants and single vintage t-shirt he owned’ look he’d been rocking for the past couple days. He noticed Sam immediately, but was careful to avoid his eyes as he mumbled a quick, dismissive, “Hey,” and turned away.

The younger Winchester had to scramble to keep his attention. “Gabe, wait. Do you have a minute?”

It was a stupid question. The answer was yes be default. Gabriel had nothing he could be doing without his wings. But it was a necessary ask, because, with all that considered, he was still expecting a solid no.

“Infinitely less than I used to have when I had wings, but yes.” He wasn’t getting eye contact, but Gabe had paused in the middle of the hallway and was at least looking in his general direction. “Do you need something?”

“Yeah, actually. I do.” Sam straightened up, inhaling and focusing directly on the gaze refusing to meet his. “I’m sorry. For saying what I did, the other day. It was mean, and it wasn’t really my right to be mad at you, even after what you said about Jess. You were right, about a lot of what you said. I didn’t want to be wrong, so I fought it, but...you were right. This situation? It’s unnatural, and just because it exists doesn’t mean I should have pushed you aside for it. I’m sorry for that. I care so much about you, and I didn’t intend at all for you to get hurt, so...yeah. I’m the worst. But Gabe, listen. Please, please, don’t take any of it to heart, especially about leaving. You’re my closest friend, and I can’t stand the thought of losing you, like that or otherwise.”

Like death, for example, was the redacted bit Sam chose not to tack on for the sheer painfulness of the idea, but within that implication was their friendship itself. It would be hard to backtrack what they had into something resembling less, well, gay, to maintain his relationship with Jess, but he was determined to do it. He had meant what he said about losing the archangel. It just wasn’t an option.

“Thanks.” Tired, whiskey eyes met his with what was a minimally happy smile. “I appreciate that, Samsquatch.” 

Something in his chest seemed to be jerk backwards at the sound of his nickname. He’d not heard any alternate, punny take on his name as of the last few weeks, which was not something he thought he’d miss, but the adverse reaction he was having to hearing it again from the Trickster’s mouth suggested perhaps he was incorrect in assuming.

“But I was wrong too. About lots of stuff. How you choose to spend your time is your business, not mine. It’s not like it’s your job to spend time with me. As for Jessica...well. I was jealous. Still am, honestly. She’s just as wonderful as you said she was, and you deserve to be happy, Sam. I mean that. I just, uh…”

_Wish that I was one who made you happy._

The Trickster reached up and scratched his neck. “...I’m sorry. Friends?”

“Friends,” Sam repeated, unspeakably relieved at how easily Gabe was taking this. Frankly, it was shocking, because he’d been expecting something else. More anger. Justified anger, at that. But Gabe was turning the other cheek, oddly enough. “Hey, after I get back, we’re going to finish Metatron’s diaries once and for all. This time with alcohol.”

Gabriel grinned. “I don’t think that will make them any more tolerable, kid. I’m gonna be honest. But sure. We can try.”

The younger of the two nodded, visibly content with the situation. “Sounds like a plan.” He inhaled and exhaled before continuing, “I’ll be back in a few days. Call me if you need anything, okay?”

“Ugh, you’re not my mother, Moose. Get lost already. You’re ruining the moment.”

“Okay, fine. But remember. Journals and whiskey when I get back. Pencil it in on your social calendar.”

“Will do.”

With a small chuckle, Sam turned and left, offering a small wave and generic goodbye as he went. Gabe remained in the hallway, smile pasted on his face until he was able to hear the telltale slam of the door that confirmed the Moose’s exit, at which point, he dropped the act, turning around and heading back to his room, mumbling.

_Not a chance, kiddo. Sorry._


	15. Stolen Car

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabe goes on a roadtrip--sans permission slip from Castiel. Fortunately, Ambriel is there to play rescuer, albeit one of an...admittedly ambiguous loyalty.

“ _Benny Goodman_ ,” a muffled male voice announced, before the clarinet riff began to kick in, rhythmic and repetitive in its arpeggiated state to the distant sounds of a clapping crowd, and the modern tuning of a bassline jumped in to aid the sound.

Gabriel pushed the gas pedal down, a chunk of his hair whipping right into his eyeball with a slight sting as the car took off, leaving its fellow vehicles in the dust as they all departed the stoplight. It had turned green not even a moment preceding this, when the aforementioned driver had accidentally dumped the entirety of the vehicle’s glove compartment onto the passenger seat, which currently sat unoccupied. Without thinking, he’d picked the first CD he saw, a green case with a patchy, disturbed drawing of eyes and the script font of ‘Saint Motel’ scribbled in the corner and chucked it in slot on the dashboard, then slammed his foot down on the pedal.

As the song progressed, it became evident that he had made a good choice. Fortunate, really, as he didn’t have a ton of time to sit and patiently thumb through the CDs in search of his very unique taste, since not even twenty minutes had passed since he had left his younger brother in a ring of holy fire back at the Bunker, no doubt dialing Sam and Dean and telling them to race back and free him so he could roast Gabriel alive for even attempting to escape lockdown in their little hell-home.

_Yes_ , Sam had told him not to take to heart anything he said a few days ago, no doubt including the comment about his being able to leave at any given moment, but...fuck that. If he were really getting down to the nitty gritty honest bits about how he felt, Gabriel was itching for an escape. The conversation he’d had with Sam earlier had alleviated none of the anxiety he’d been experiencing recently, such as feeling like a burden and also the worst person alive, so, he’d resolved sometime yesterday that he was going to make good on Sam’s words and decide to get the hell outta dodge while he still had the willpower and mindset to do so.

It was also a win-win for everyone, and he could totally justify it if Cas did catch him and grill him.

Sam got to date Jessica in peace, live out his pretty, lovely, Disney fairytale ending with the love of his life, which, no lie, still hurt like a bitch, and Cas could focus on riding Dean’s ass so hard both physically and mentally that the hunter would have no choice but to open that Pandora’s box to his giant dickbag of a dad. Oh, and Gabriel could stop feeling like a miserable deadweight to everyone around him! It was obviously the solution. Clearly.

_But Raphael_ , Cas had argued in his gravelly voice when Gabriel had explained. _You might very well be on Raphael’s hitlist. You can’t just go. You’ll be in danger._

Ha. Cas. Such a joker. Raphael? Really? Pfft. He was acting like Gabriel actually thought his life had any meaning. What a bizarre, uninformed outlook. True, maybe Cas had a home and family who loved him, so he could see the harm in getting potentially murdered by his older sibling, but Gabe? Yeah, not so much. He’d already died once, and everyone had pretty much went on the same as usual without him. He was sure that the trend would continue if round two came to pass.

So he left, Cas still yelling passionately at him out the door, when he hopped into the one of the first cars he saw in the garage and took off. He was heading east aimlessly, a few menial belongings of his in the backseat, like he was going on an overnight, but the truth was, that was all he had. A trumpet he’d yet to play and a few outfits that made him look homeless. Truly, he was living the dream right now. 

Not really. Even a five-year-old could see he was coping poorly with the disasters in his life. But he thought, maybe getting away would help. Jetsetting down the highway was not going to repair his wings, no, but it did solve the problem of having to sit in Sam’s presence and nitpick fights with him because he was jealous of Jessica. And if he were away from the hunter, it would be easier to crush these troublesome feelings of his beneath his heel, because just being around Sam and his sickening compassion made it impossible to forget that he was head over heels for the guy. Like apologizing before he left. It had almost stopped Gabe in his tracks and halted his plan because he’d gotten caught up once more in those pretty puppy dog eyes. 

He couldn’t stand it. More pressure on the gas. The car zoomed ahead in the left lane, passing the competition beside it. Saying he was just like his brothers was uncalled for, and probably meaner than anything Gabriel could have possibly thought up to insult himself. He’d tried so very hard to distance himself from that part of his life, for the Moose to bring it up again tore open wounds he’d never recalled having until just then, and he still felt like he was bleeding out all over the car interior whilst he drove, pale fists around the wheel and his mouth set in a firm, abiding frown.

Because perhaps he was right. Maybe Gabriel couldn’t change. Maybe he shouldn’t have tried, either. There was real, factual evidence, and then some of a more subjective nature that suggested that the attempt hadn’t helped him. By moving to improve himself, he’d somehow lost his grace, his sense of self, and the common sense that prevented him from making decisions as stupid as falling in love with a Winchester. Not exactly a winning combo. Maybe he was meant to be the Trickster forever, flitting from town to town with his shallow, miserable existence of taking out his own issues on derelicts and deadbeats, and this was his punishment for deviating. It was certainly fitting, if that were the case.

He had noticed an exit looming up ahead, with attention to the local eateries off of it, right about the same time that he both heard and saw the plop that landed in the seat beside him, causing his foot to almost--just nearly--slam on the brake and cause the entire car to halt jarringly in the middle of the interstate. Instead, he inhaled deeply and sharply pulled to the right, merging with that lane and reducing the pressure to keep a threatening speed, before glancing over to see, inevitably, that Castiel had caught up with him. 

But it wasn’t Castiel who’d taken a place in the passenger seat, thumbing through CDs, but their sister, seemingly very relaxed as she settled into the fine leather interior of the vehicle and let out a sharp gasp whenever she stumbled across one in particular. “I love Rihanna,” she whispered softly.

“Ambriel. Hey. Couldn’t have given a guy a heads-up before apparating into my car?” He took the exit, prepared for this to get ugly. If it did, he’d rather not be on the highway screaming about how he absolutely, could not, under any circumstances, come back to the Bunker. 

A pair of bright but mostly colorless dark eyes met his response. “Oh, Cas prayed to me and told me you were making a run for it and to come get you. I’m gonna be honest, I have no idea that means, but it meant an excuse to see you, so I wasn’t gonna complain! I’ve missed you, Gabriel.”

Leave it to Ambriel to make his job easier somehow. The archangel exhaled quietly, easing his pressure on the gas as they approached what looked to be a small town, complete with a Pizza Hut and their own compact Walmart. It would be smart to get out ahead of this while he still had the opportunity. Ambriel was more emotional, more naive than Cas. He might not have understood why Gabe had to leave, but his sister might. Plus, she was always up for an adventure, which was, in a way, what he was going on. He was not thinking of it as such, but it wouldn’t hurt to refer to it as one if in his attempt to convince her not to report back to Cas. 

“Cas seemed upset on the phone. I couldn’t make much sense of what he was saying, but he mentioned that you and Sam fought. Is everything okay?” Gabe didn’t need to look to see the concern on her face. She was always overemotional, Ambriel. Experienced happiness like he’d never seen, but also sadness, and always transparent. 

He figured there was no harm in the truth. Again, it wasn’t unreasonable to leave when it helped everyone. And Ambriel, despite not being the sharpest bulb in the box, would find out the truth eventually, if not from him than Cas. So, clearing his throat, he managed a cheerful, “Abso-lute-ly, kiddo!” with little effort, before swallowing the lump sitting in his windpipe and continuing, “Samsquatch and I just have our difference, that’s all. I needed some space from the flannel melodrama. Too many cooks in the kitchen and all.”

Ambriel furrowed her brow, scrunching her nose up as if a bug had landed on the tip. “Too many cooks? But...oh no, was I imposing the other day then? I hope not. I didn’t mean to hire myself--”

“It’s a saying, Am,” he clarified.

“Oh...okay. I still don’t know what it means. But, I think I understand wanting to be away from the Winchesters. I don’t think it’s fair, how Dean has been treating Cas lately, not telling John about their love. And John is a big jerk, dropping hints about us being no better than demons during a family dinner. It’s super rude. The Winchesters are lame. I should have poisoned them.”

Gabriel snorted, pulling off into the parking lot of the Pizza Hut and killing the engine, prepared to give her what would hopefully not be a hard sell on going turncoat against Cas. He shifted in his seat, turning to face her, and the plethora of CD cases that had slid to the floor in her search for the one Rihanna album clutched between her hands, and began to speak candidly. “Ambriel, you know I love you and Cas more than anything, right?”

“Of course.” Her response was hesitant, fearful. Needlessly, he thought, but he understood the worry. To the others, his actions might have seemed to be rash, but that was because they didn’t understand. Ambriel, for one, didn’t have the capacity to understand. He’d thought Cas might, having gone through something achingly similar, barring a few minute changes, but…

“Good. Then hear me when I say this: I am not going back to that place. Not now. Probably not ever. If you didn’t know about Raphael, I’m sure Cas has filled you in at this point, so to answer your next question, yes, this is a death mission. But I’m not going back there, and frankly, you can’t make me. If you zap me back, I will leave again. Restrain me? I will find a way out. I refuse to be prisoner to the Winchesters, literal or otherwise. I am not…” Once more, he was treading into dangerous territory here, speaking liberally with a crack in the pause after the words. “...I am not their plaything. I’m not their weapon, or charity case, and I refuse to be, for as long as I live and breathe on this shitty planet. I will not take another moment of it destroying what little sanity and self-worth I have left. I have to get out, and I am hoping that you’ll respect that.”

It didn’t take the time he thought it would for her to respond.

“I will.”

He furrowed his brows, mystified at the quickness of her reply, but he found his sister watching him with a determined kind of resolve he never pegged her capable of achieving up until this very moment. She nodded deftly before further explaining. “You shouldn’t have to feel like that. Home isn’t a place, but...if that place isn’t home for you, if the Winchesters and Cas aren’t home, then that’s that! I don’t want to be responsible for bringing you back to it if it makes you so unhappy.”

There was a brief pause, where she seemed to consider her next thoughts before voicing them. “But...I also don’t want you to die, brother. You and Cas are my whole world. And you aren’t safe like this. Without your grace, you’re...you’re vulnerable. And if something happened to you, I know that Cas and I both would never be able to live with ourselves. So, I propose an alternative plan!”

“An alternative plan, huh? I’m listening.”

“I come with you, wherever you are going, and act as your personal bodyguard. I will also act as middleman between you and Cas, so that he knows you’re okay, but you don’t have to come back to the Bunker. Sound like a deal?” The deviousness in her voice at the end reminded him strikingly of himself, years ago, when he’d brokered agreements between Pagan deities. 

“And you think our brother, the mother hen, will go for that?” Gabe asked, halfway sarcastic. Castiel wasn’t usually one for settling, even if, in this case, it would be a necessary evil for the sake of his brother’s mental health. He’d gotten the sense that Cas thought he was being overdramatic with this situation. Losing his grace. Losing Sam. Being ignored by everyone. 

Short-sighted Castiel, accusing him of being whiny and self-indulgent in his own pity, when his brother was the one who, not so long ago, had fled the coop himself with more grace than Gabriel possessed at this point, angsting over his own broken heart at the hands of Dean Winchester. It would be rich, if it didn’t hurt so badly. And logically, Gabriel knew it shouldn’t have. Cas was always going to choose the Winchesters over him, time and time again, but really? This time? Was Gabriel really wallowing that much? Was it that ridiculous to want to escape the environment that made him, more and more often recently, want to stick his own celestial weapon through his now-beating heart?

There’d been an assassin on the loose then too. How was this different, aside from the fact that Cas and Dean belonged together, inevitably? Castiel got the happy ending, or, at least, the ending he wanted. Happiness was relative, after all. And in this particular scenario, they weren’t the only ones either. With Gabriel out of the way, Sam and Jess also got the fairytale finale the hunter deserved. Really, this was endgame material right here. A noble sacrifice for the greater good. 

Ambriel shrugged, uncommitted to the suggestion. “I don’t know if he’ll want to. But I think I can convince him. After all, you’re no less safe with me than with Sam and Dean.”

Pssh. If that wasn’t the truth. The Winchesters destroyed about as much as they fixed. Emphasis on about as much.

“Oh, also, one more thing.”

“Yeah?” Anxiety spiked in his veins, and his hands, which had yet to drop from the wheel tightened their grip on the soft, cushiony surface. What was it? What kind of condition did he have to agree to in order to set in motion this surprisingly decent plan? Surely it wasn’t something else sentimental. He’d cried enough the other day for the rest of eternity. He didn’t feel the need to relive it.

“We should get brownies, somewhere in between all of that. I heard the ones here were good. Is that okay?”

The archangel exhaled, fingers falling, one by one from the steering device as he swallowed every bit of apprehension he’d had and flashed his best try at a smile. “Sure thing. Might as well. We have a long trip ahead of us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like the real question is, has Gabriel's driving improved from the Denial Twist? Because I'd like to think yes if he is on the interstate, which is dangerous enough if you have actual experience operating a vehicle. We'll go with that. Unfortunately, it's a winding road, paved with bumps and good intentions, but it begs greater mysteries as to what Gabriel's destination entails. Hopefully brownies, if there is any justice for Ambriel, but...all I can say is, that horn is gonna come in handy. As always, I love to hear feedback, and I appreciate the kudos, folks!


	16. Everything We Do Is Wrong

For the first time in what felt like years, Sam Winchester was excited to come home. Not pleased at the prospect, necessarily, but excited, as though he were a little kid awaiting Christmas with impatience, grinning and inquiring of his parents what his gifts may be. However, in this scenario, there was no Christmas, but hopefully, the face of a moderately, even temporarily happy archangel waiting for him at the Bunker, with a glass of aged whiskey and a pen. And while Sam wasn’t expecting Gabriel to be gleeful without reasoning, especially considering how awful he’d been feeling as of late, he was counting on some mildly more positive vibes after Sam gave him the gift he’d found in Lawrence.

It was unintentional, that he’d come across it, and he wasn’t even sure of its legitimacy, but either way, when he’d spotted it, he had immediately jumped on the chance to distract a museum employee and sneak the artifact away under his jacket. It had been difficult, especially considering the shape of the object, but to see Gabriel reunited with not only it but a small degree of happiness would be worth it. He wasn’t an idiot, Sam Winchester. He knew the smile the angel had pulled days ago was about as real as any of the tricks he’d pulled over the course of their relationship. He wanted to legitimize it, even for a second. To see the twinkle in crinkled, hazelesque eyes and a small quirk of soft, small lips upwards when he received this present.

Although, before any of that were to come to pass, Sam would have to find a way to forget every ounce of overly compassionate feeling he had for the guy within the ten seconds he had until reaching the door to the Bunker. It should’ve been easier than this, crushing a crush, and on Gabriel, a trainwreck by definition, no less, but he was having issues, even when he reminded himself with a quick look to his side that he was with Jess, the supposed love of his life, and they were both alive and well for the first time in over a decade. It should have been easier.. He had, mistakenly, thought it would be. And yet.

The door opened with a greater push than usual, revealing the half-spiral staircase down to the common area, or, back in the days of the practicing Men of Letter, the War Room, and Jess entered first, graceful in her descent of the staircase before abruptly pausing, and causing Sam to look up from his phone, which he had been using to text Dean, and actually take in the state of their home when she asked, “Castiel?”

The angel stood eerily still in a circle of fire, no doubt trapped by the holy oil/match combo in the middle of the room, next to the table, his eyes trained on them, but not a sound out of his mouth for a few seconds. Sam, horrified, took the stairs about five at a time as he sidestepped his girlfriend and rushed to the floor to stamp out the fire and break the enchantment. “Cas. What the hell happened?”

“My brother,” he offered curtly, immediately striding over to the nearby table and checking his phone for a second before slipping it into his pocket and then turning back to Sam. 

“Raphael?” Sam inquired for confirmation, fear spiking in his veins at the name. The archangel breaking into their Bunker would be a hard feat, surely, with the warding they’d put up recently against him, but not impossible. There were no known symbols in existence that could completely bar him from entering the space and casting a holy fire circle around Cas to...what ends, he wasn’t sure. 

If Raphael had marched upon their turf and trapped Cas, why not kill him? He certainly had enough reason to. Castiel and Raphael had had an unfairly matched rivalry going for years, since the Apocalypse even. To come in here and leave him standing, in seemingly scratchless condition begged what else he wanted if it wasn’t the angel’s demise. 

The realization dawned on him not even half a second later and exploded on his face as he strode towards Cas, placing a hand on his upper arm without thinking, and asked, “Where’s Gabriel?” 

“I...I don’t know.” As he heard the words, and his heart sunk slowly, springs releasing, one by one, Cas shrugged his hand off and leaned against the back of one of the chairs to the table depicting the world map. His brother-in-law crossed his arms, looking as ancient as he knew him to be when he sighed, reaching up to brush a hand through dark tresses. “He didn’t say where he was going.”

“Okay, well we have to find him.” The younger Winchester was operating solely on instinct as his mind refused to process, a giant clot of anxiety blockading any rational thought he might have had. “What--what did he say?” It was a struggle to form any coherent sentence, or voice any of the thousand, numbing images running through his mind unhelpfully at that moment, particularly those damning shots of the archangel being tormented by Raphael.

Cas was hesitant to answer, his mouth beginning to move before abruptly snapping shut, eyebrows knitting together in uncertainty as he glanced at Jess with no context, before resting darkened blue eyes upon the hunter. “I don’t think it’s my place to say, Sam.”

“What? Not your place to say? How can it not be your place, Cas?! Raphael trapped you and kidnapped your brother and that’s all you’re going to give me?!”

It was both frustration and rage that fueled the angry tone in Sam’s voice as he strode towards Cas and made the bold decision to grab the angel by his lapels and push him further into the table. As Cas gazed at him unflinchingly, confusion brewing in his eyes, as though understanding somehow escaped him in this situation, the younger Winchester could barely breathe through the hazy smoke in his lungs brought in by these events. He was losing his shit, he knew that, but it was impossible not to, considering how Cas was acting. How Sam was acting too, although he wasn’t about to acknowledge that.

Maybe if he’d been around, he could’ve stopped this. If him and Jess hadn’t decided to stay an extra night, or if he’d just handed off the mission entirely to Cas, or Dean, or someone else, perhaps things would have been different. Raphael wouldn’t have come, whisked away the archangel in the dead of night, or whenever, or Sam could’ve at least tried to defend him, so he wasn’t left grasping at Cas’s trenchcoat with budding tears about to rise up and reclaim their place around the rims of his eyes.

“Sam,” Cas said slowly, as though communicating with a toddler, “Raphael didn’t take Gabriel.” He gently removed the hunter’s hands, which lost their grip within a few seconds, then dropping limply to his sides. Cas then pursed his lips, once more diverting his attention in another direction before continuing softly, “He left of his own accord.”

“...What?”

He didn’t hear him right. That had to be it. 

“I stopped in to check in on him after you left, and he...well, I tried to talk him out of it. But he was a step ahead of me. Pulled the holy oil trick before I could make sense of what he was doing.”

No. No. Cas had to be wrong. This was some kind of hallucination, or measure taken by Raphael to unhinge his psyche. “Cas…” he began, desperately searching for any other possible way events could have gone down to create this result. Anything. He would take anything but this. “That can’t be right. I talked to him right before we left. He was fine.”

The look he got in response from Cas physically hurt him, like a thousand needles puncturing his skin, and leaving him bleeding like a stuck pig. It wasn’t the bitchface the angel pulled during disagreements with Dean, or the dissatisfied wife expression for being overruled in an argument. It was the dead wrong stare. The piercing gaze of someone who knew better, and thought that the target of their glare should’ve as well.

He was having issues breathing. But still, he talked, as that was all he had. “You can’t...you can’t be right. Cas. Tell me this is a joke. Please. Cas.”

One last shot to be wrong. One last shot for this to all be one big, bad, practical joke, where he was being Punk’d, and Gabriel would swing around the corner, and greet him with that charming, shit-eating grin of his. _You got me, Moose. Foiled again._

Cas shook his head, disappointment directed at no one in particular when raising his visage back up to meet Sam’s worried gaze and clenched fists. “I would love to. But I can’t. I can tell you that I sent Ambriel after him, but...that was two days ago. If she found him, she would have brought him back, and she hasn’t.”

It kept getting worse. Like a Luciferian nightmare, the news crawled into his bloodstream and tangled around his muscles, leaving movement difficult if not impossible. He was a fool. He’d known the smile was fake, and that they were anything but friends now, but this? Leaving? 

When Sam was gone, no less. He didn’t want to be interrupted. Cas had been an accounted for, but inconvenient happenstance that the archangel had evidently been expecting. That meant that this wasn’t an impulse move. Gabriel had planned it, presumably days in advance. He’d merely waited to carry it out until the chances of success were most probably. Calculated. Shrewd, even. Unsurprising, for the Trickster.

But Gabe? The wingless, introverted archangel stealing handfuls of cereal from the cupboards at 2am to avoid seeing the faces of their family? To say he hadn’t been expecting this level of detail and premeditation was an understatement. Sam was an idiot, indisputably. Gabriel may have dropped his feather, but the persona, the clever, conniving brain that put his brothers to shame, had never left. Time and again, the Winchesters had been tricked by him. And now, they’d been tricked again.

This time, all Sam’s fault. You know where the door is, he’d said, like an enraged, thoughtless idiot. Don’t let it hit you on the way out. Like he didn’t know Gabe was hurting. Like that wasn’t his own fault as well, not being able to responsibly divy up his time between his indefinable relationship with the faux Pagan god and his suddenly-alive girlfriend and parents, not to mention the Raphael situation. But he should have prioritized. Gabriel was always a flight risk. Always liable to leave at any time. Stupid of him, to think that not having wings would stop him.

“Did…” the words came out in a whisper, all he could muster, as a set of firm hands joined his own. “...did he say why?” He couldn’t meet Cas’s eyes. Not right now. Maybe not ever, if Gabe met his demise like this, because Sam had let a few careless words he didn’t mean slip his tongue. 

“Jessica, could you give us a minute?” Cas inquired, gruff but polite. Sam hadn’t even noticed that she hadn’t left the room yet, but her reply reminded him that she did, in fact exist in all of this hell. 

“Of course. Let me know if you know anything.”

As always, she was bursting at the seams with kindness and worry for everyone around her. Even though her and Gabriel had not spoken more than a few words to one another over the course of the past few weeks, Sam had talked briefly of his friendship with the Trickster and his backstory to the Winchesters. She knew he meant a lot to the hunters, and to Cas. Although he didn’t dare to look in her direction, for fear of actually letting the tears escape their prison, he could feel her watching him with concern. Typical Jess. She really was perfect. So...unlike him.

When her footsteps faded away into the distance of the Bunker hallways, Cas released his hands. “Are you sure you want to know?” he inquired gently. 

“Yes.” 

_Lay it on me_ , he thought. _I deserve it._ For what he said. For how he’d essentially kicked the angel when he was down the hole and still dropping. He deserved the weighty ton of bricks about to dropped on his chest. Probably more, if he was being honest.

“He wanted everyone to be happy. And, he...he said that leaving would fix that. It wasn’t fair to ask you to choose between him and Jess, and his continued presence in the house wasn’t helping anyone, so he figured it was better for everyone if he left.”

The taller Winchester swallowed a large lump in his throat before reluctantly, and shakily exhaling through his nose, the effort labored. It was worse than he’d been expecting. Better if he left? Better? He was going to die if he left. Raphael would find him, and--and hurt him and--

He couldn’t. He couldn’t think about it. But Gabriel couldn’t take care of himself as a human. He wasn’t like Cas. They hadn’t trained him to be a hunter. His powers were his crutch, and when those disappeared, he’d become no different than your average joe, rewearing the same clothes from week-to-week and washing his own dishes. He couldn’t protect himself at all if he were attacked. He was, essentially, helpless, as far as they knew.

“We have to find him.”

Cas nodded, but said nothing of his reaction. “I’ll call Ambriel on her cell. See if she found anything.” He immediately turned his attention to the screen of his phone, not sparing Sam another moment, unshockingly. Did Sam really deserve another moment after this?

If Gabriel was hurt because of him, he didn’t. If he were...dead...he definitely didn’t. If this were all his fault, he…

...he couldn’t think about it. It wasn’t an option. Gabe was fine. Physically, at least. It would be his operating assumption until proven otherwise, because it had to be. Unsheathing his own phone, he abruptly turned and headed off in the direction of his and Jess’s room, intending to grab his laptop and any information he could from the web. Productivity was key here. And he would be working morning, noon, night, forever, until he rectified this.

He would fix it. He had to. Failure wasn’t an option at this point, for Gabe’s sake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short length of the past few chapters. But I've been trying to focus on being less...introspective, I guess. There's only so many thoughts you can list before it's just...too much? Right? I...I honestly don't know. I'm in a weird mental place recently with writing. I considered orphaning this work, even though I would like to see it finished, simply for lack of confidence on my end. Work has been a bitch recently, and my recognition for anything has been shit as of late, so...that's that. But I'm gonna keep going, I guess. I feel like I owe it to the characters, even if my mojo has kicked the bucket, just like Gabe's.


	17. Thrift Shop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel is having a mid-eternal-life-crisis. Ambriel wants to buy every set of twinkle lights Goodwill has. There's a brass band. Gabe's not getting his deposit back. Ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @everybody who commented last chapter, I wanted to address y'all in one fell swoop: thank you so much for your support!! The ao3 community has always been so kind and welcoming to me, I feel like I owe you guys the world simply for being nice. Summertime is hard for me, because I'm on campus alone, and I get in my own head really easy, to the point where the evils of depression sink their teeth a little too deep into my skin and I'm left feeling inadequate. But you guys made me feel better. This is gonna get finished, come hell or high water. Thank you. <3

Distorted through the various, shapely glass receptacles in front of him, and the hideous, thoughtless choice to use fluorescent lighting in presence of his complexion, Gabriel looked to be the victim of a budding zit right in the crevice between his nostril and cheek. So much as a simple sniff elicited pain, let alone electing to wipe his nose. Fantastic news, considering his job interview was tomorrow and half his information was fudged, excluding his employment history, which was blank. Yes, he mused to himself in an official hum. Hire me. A four-billion-year-old ex-archangel with no listable experience whatsoever in anything besides being a professional pain-in-the-ass.

Any verifiable sources he had to confirm his talents and previous gigs were all long dead and gone from drug use, as musicians often were, or with dementia and debilitating arthritis, so it wasn’t as if his claim of having played with Dizzy Gillespie and John Coltrane had any witnesses. Of course, who knew if that even mattered anymore. Everything was EDM and Katy Perry bops now, which, there was nothing wrong with, but he did long for simpler times, where musicianship was all it took, rather than a pretty, youthful face and the ability to bust a move whilst flashing rippling muscle or soft, photoshopped skin.

“Gabriel! Look at this bed! It comes with it’s own transportation system!”

He wasn’t sure what he was expecting when he turned around, but somehow, a gurney wasn’t it. With a tiny sigh and forced smile, he returned his attention to the glassware, and the blooming pimple. “I know I’m old, kiddo, but I don’t need to be hospitalized just yet. Hold your horses. I’m sure the day will come.”

Once upon a time, maybe not, but ever since becoming more or less human, he was being forced to deal with his own mortality, between the acne and the bone aches he got from moving cheap, heavy furniture into his new rental house in Holy Cross. With a fat wad of cash Ambriel had cheerfully pickpocketed off a drunk investor in a bar, and the chunk of bills he’d stolen from the Winchester vault, he was set for first month’s rent in the neighborhood, fully intending to settle in and eventually buy the property if the Raphael situation came to settle to a standstill and he scored this opening in the brass band to continue payments. 

It was surprisingly not shitty, as he’d initially been expecting upon the tour given by one exceptionally tiresome real estate agent. No foundation issues, history of suicides or faulty wiring, as far as he knew. And, it included A/C. Couldn’t beat a deal like that, right? Honestly, the circumstances were suspicious, and he would’ve been more concerned if he had the time, but until the anxiety that Cas would be coming after them, Winchesters in tow, disappeared, he was going to be constantly on edge. His best bet right now was to buckle down and lay low, which, yes, a job in the spotlight wasn’t ideal for maintaining, but it was either that or fast food, and he would’ve rather died than be stuck serving milkshakes to snarky teenagers who used photo filters to turn their faces into grotesque, squeaky-voiced abominations of God. So. He picked his battles.

Holy Cross was a nowhere in the vastness of New Orleans. Close enough to the French Quarter for work though, which was all that mattered. The two had already held a funeral for his rent deposit and painted warded sigils on the walls as protection against potential assassins who might come wandering into town for blood, and covered up a messy but effective devil’s trap underneath a bargain-priced rug Ambriel had run a state over to find. However, he was still missing a trove of furniture, including the basic living room necessities, and, regrettably, a microwave, even though the younger angel behind him insisted upon cooking every meal for him.

A burden was the last thing he wanted to be to Ambriel, considering he was asking enough from her in betraying Cas. This wasn’t a situation she deserved to be in, but then, she had no qualms with it, almost as if she automatically understood why he needed so badly out of the Bunker, away from the Winchesters and the suffocating stench of his own failure. Ambriel was uncharacteristically loyal and naive, and honestly, the kind of support he needed at a time like this. Her innocence was also an added, humorous gift, like at the present moment, where she had plucked a flower crown from a nearby rack and placed it gently upon her head, and was making the most awkward poses angelically possible in front of the mirror. He felt himself smile as he walked over, asking of her, “Are you posing for America’s Next Top Model, or your pitch to become an actress on Disney Channel?”

“I don’t know, but I like it. It feels so natural, and real.”

The thorns and thistles in the crown were very obviously plastic, as evidenced by the glint they released in presence of the bar lights overhead, but he let it slide. “Well, throw it in the cart. Did you see any reasonably priced TVs?”

Ambriel whirled around, tossing the crown in the cart with a superhuman speed before bringing her finger to her chip and tapping wistfully as her gaze ascended skyward. “Hmm. Well, that depends on what reasonably priced is. The most expensive was $150. 40” diagonally, brand name...uh...Sonic?”

“Panasonic,” he corrected, raising his eyebrows. “Not bad for a Goodwill.” He shrugged noncommittally and gave the cart a once-over, surprised to learn that in the five minutes he’d left it unattended, a vast majority of their planned purchases became prom dresses and twinkle lights, something he had not been consulted on. “Uh, Am, hey. How come you didn’t tell me we were planning a high school homecoming? These are things I’d like to be kept updated about, seeing as we’re limited on funds.”

She planted her foot at the end of the cart, propelling herself forward to lean over the basket and stare at its contents. “Oh, these aren’t for that! Now that you’re a fancy horn player, I’ll need dresses to wear to your shows! I don’t want to stick out like a sick thumb!” Her voice dropped to a quiet volume. “Did I use that phrase right?”

Gabe chuckled, reaching in to carefully pick them up, making a special effort to separate the fabrics as the thin, rubbery straps of one dress got tangled around another’s hanger neck. “Close. It’s sore thumb. You know I haven’t even gotten the job yet, right? These kind of things don’t always have guarantees, and I, uh, well, I’m a bit rusty on the horn. Been a couple...decades, actually, since I’ve played.”

Ambriel grinned at him, nonplussed by his lack of confidence, and stepped down from her perch with a flourish and twirl. “I’m sure it’s just like riding a bike! I have complete and total confidence that you’re going to nail this.”

Silly, having confidence in him. But he appreciated it. “Right. And the twinkle lights?”

“I thought they’d make good in place of a lamp. The holidays will be around any day now, and I want to celebrate this year, with a tree and everything! It’s almost like we’re going to be a family, you know? Except Cas isn’t here. But maybe we can talk him into coming. I can give him the hard sell.”

The archangel sighed, gripping the plasticine edges of the shopping cart as he tilted his head back, glancing upwards at the industrial ceiling rails lining the store in a criss-cross pattern. Family. Huh. What a concept. He supposed that the term could’ve been used to describe the three of them living together in one place, permanently. But it was more suited to the memories he had of heaven, of bickering, petty squabbles escalating into all-out war between his brothers and father, and not a word he was overly fond of when used in the domestic sense.

The idea of settling down, of relaxing into a state of trust again with another was not only foreign but unwise. He’d tried it with the Winchesters, and, very much to his expectations, it had ended horribly, with Sam and with Cas. And it wasn’t that he was mad, per se, at his brother, for choosing to align himself with troublesome, manipulative trainwrecks. That was his prerogative, and as far as Gabriel saw it, he was more than welcome to throw himself on the chopping block if that’s what he wanted. He was past the point of trying to get his brother to see reason about the human duo. But Cas--no, _Castiel_ , as he’d insisted a year ago, in fit of teenage-like angst over Dean in the middle of the McCuskey Murder House--could’ve seen the signs about his wings way before Sam did. He could’ve prevented, perhaps, the gradual wearing down of the walls Gabe had put up for centuries by the hunter, and ultimately, saved him from getting so needlessly invested in Sam’s attention. It would’ve been one less ambiguously large burden to carry on his shoulders, even away from the Bunker.

Because unfortunately, feelings didn’t just stop when absent from the source of their woes. Although, he found himself more recently to be more pissed than he was depressed lately, alternating between states of believing he deserved it for being so careless and stupid to actually think, for two seconds, that he was genuinely appreciated, and fuming in incredulity that this pinprick of a human had the audacity to abuse his interest in him like this. Mostly, he loathed Jessica. For being alive. For being too Dad-damn perfect. For waltzing in and disturbing everything that kept him from utterly losing his shit over being wingless and realistically, alone. Sure, it was an illusion, as evidenced by how quickly the hunters had turned their back on him, and Cas too for that matter, and he was nothing but a passing trend for them, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t have been content living the lie. At least it had kept him busy. Distracted.

Now, his focuses had to be spent elsewhere, such as on perusing the questionably sound furniture offered by the Goodwill in New Orleans, or stressing over his job interview tomorrow with an up and coming brass band in the French Quarter. Meanwhile, he hadn’t managed to actually put the horn to his lips and play in about fifty years, further agonized by the fact that the one instrument he had was the one bought for him in Devil’s Lake by Sam. If he could forget that, picture himself back onstage in what old geezers with Confederate flags on the back of their vehicles considered ‘the good ol’ days,’ he could probably summon the force of air he needed to push through this troublesome time until he either got his grace back or died. Probably.

Difficult to say, considering he didn’t see much here to live or breathe for, in Goodwill or anywhere else, although, it still beat the Bunker, being surrounded by angst that he himself partially radiated and the overwhelming, judgemental force of John Winchester’s dirty looks whenever he spent all day in his pajamas on the couch, watching Downton Abbey. Because he _definitely_ could’ve been doing something besides that, right? Like saving the world, for instance! Without his wings or motivation, or even fucking help for that matter.

If, by some godsend, no pun intended, he managed to regain his powers, he was sending that man back to hell, ascending to heaven by himself, and taking the throne that his brothers had left tarnished and blackened by their reigns of terror upon angelkind and humanity, just so all of this would stop, forever. It was what was needed, and even though he cherished freedom the most of Lucifer, Michael and Raphael, perhaps this was the fitting punishment for fleeing so long ago, and leaving them to war it out by themselves. He needed to repent, not to God, but to everyone else, the angels like Cas who he’d left behind in a failing system that respected order and discipline and nothing else. 

In the meantime, however, he had other concerns. Like why Ambriel was picking out a fur coat in a city where the average winter temperature was around 66℉, or the lack of reasonably priced, matching table sets that didn’t seem like they were about to cave in at any given moment. 

He didn’t have time to focus on an unlikely, unattainable future. For now, he needed to survive. Which meant plates and dishes and deciding on whether or not he wanted to chance $75 on unstable furniture. Getting a job. Paying bills. Advising Ambriel on bad wardrobe choices.

And he could do that. 

Probably.


	18. My Hallelujah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel is rightfully pissed. Dean is...rightfully scared. Sam realizes this might genuinely be the fuck-up to end all fuck-ups.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4k again! There is a separation, but I don't want to be splitting chapters between three different parties rather than two, because that's just unnecessary for what I have planned.

It started out innocently enough. Sam had been in the war room, poring tirelessly with sleep-deprived eyes over fully transcribed journals of Metatron’s writings, a calling card courtesy of the missing presence usually dancing around the room and laying siege to his company with pop culture references and biting commentary. Mary was in the kitchen, explaining to Jessica the differences between vampires and kitsune, the latter of which had been the most recent case handled by the Winchesters in the past few days. Dean was in the library with Cas, taking a moment to review what they knew so far about the Raphael situation, and testing their very virtuous luck under the table. 

It was becoming less and less conspicuous, their relationship. Dean, although not the type to admit wrongdoing, had past leaped over the line of sneaking around with their midnight trysts and was now delving into dangerous territory, with his hand inching closer to Cas’s during morning hours, and snaking an arm around his waist when around Sam and Jessica. Today, he was feeling especially bold, as he invited Cas into the shower this morning, where the sounds between the two of them could be disguised under water flow. As for the angel, he saw no reason to step in and state the obvious, as, knowing his husband, it would go unheard, but he was certainly thinking it. 

If Dean were to come clean about the situation, the need to hide would be cleanly scraped from their already full plates with an almost deft stroke. Cas for one was ready to deal with the mess that was John Winchester’s expected, homophobic rage against their marriage, and had been since their arrival. With each degrading comment about one of his sons, or disparaging looks cast towards Gabriel when he was still here, Cas had been building up his own sort of resentment for the man, all due to release should he step a foot in Dean’s direction with the intention of hurting him. He was prepared for this, should it come to pass. And just to be clear, for the record, it should’ve come to pass.

Unfortunately, it did not. At least, not in the way it was supposed to. 

Thus, Cas stood in a bar all too familiar to him as being the one that his now defeathered brother had brought him to in the hope of fixing his broken heart over a year ago. His meeting place for intel, also, although that came second today when he spotted Hannah sitting by herself in the corner staring concernedly at him from across the room before hesitantly standing and approaching. “Cas?” he heard her say. But like he was on a plane, the sound was tunnelled, unreal.

_We’re just friends, Dad. Friends going to a wedding and getting their photo taken. That’s all._

Friends. Yeah. _Friends._ Gabriel was right about the Winchesters. Always had been. In moments like these, with friends like these, with husbands like these, Cas was forced to accept that undeniable truth. They were insufferable, flannel bastards. John had entered the room shortly after Dean’s hand had made its move across Cas’s knee, and then abruptly pulled back at the sight of the man in the doorway, clutching a photograph of the four of them in January, standing in front of the Roadhouse with their suits and matching grins. Cas and Dean holding hands. Their wedding bands not visible, but present. Gabriel and Sam on their respective sides, both proudly posing beside their brothers.

 _What is this?_ He had asked.

Cas glanced at his feet presently, unable to meet Hannah’s gaze as she stopped in front of him. Her flats were well-worn by her vessel, Caroline, black and polka-dotted. Small dots, rather than the big ones. It suited her personality.

Running a set of fingers over anothers did not ease him. The wedding band was invisible now too. In his frustration and anger with Dean for refusing to own up to the truth, even when directly confronted, and actually going as far as to demote their relationship to ‘just friends,’ a tag of homophobia in itself when used by a man who, just that morning, had been getting laid by another man, and an angel who’d pulled him from hell, no less, he’d slid it off his finger and pelted it at the hunter before flapping his wings and disappearing. 

No angels in the Bunker anymore. Both, driven out by Winchesters who couldn’t admit their feelings when it came down to it. Dean, however, had plenty of warning. Too long, they’d been at this game. It was October. Almost two months of deceit under the sheets. One month of Gabriel being absent from the Bunker, and Sam outright refusing sleep, because he claimed he didn’t have time. Longer than that, still, having to see the younger of the two attempt to maintain a relationship he wasn’t fit for anymore.

He didn’t have enough time either. Part of him, albeit very small, wished that he’d skipped Balthazar’s party that had reunited him with the Winchesters over a year ago. Kept jumping from case to case with Gabriel and Ambriel, even if it wouldn’t have changed some things. Gabriel would still have presumably lost his grace, as they hadn’t yet diagnosed the cause of that, but Cas would still have family that was proud to be his. Why was Dean not proud of him? Why was he not good enough for Dean to just stand up and admit what they were? Wasn’t he worth that, to Dean? 

_Until death do us part._

It felt like another lie.

“Castiel, what’s going on? I didn’t think we were supposed to meet until tomorrow. I don’t have anything for you right now.”

He flashed his hand thoughtlessly at the angel, a soft, sharp inhale enough evidence that she had thankfully understood what was going on without him needing to explain it. “I’m going to get a drink,” he announced with a heavy sigh, finally bringing his own blue eyes to meet hers. “Would you like anything?”

“I’ve...never drank before. Alcohol, at least. I will defer to your best judgement.” As she nodded, Cas couldn’t help but consider her words with great sarcasm. His best judgement? Really? He made terrible choices. In men and in life. 

But oh well. A few quiet sentences to a bartender, and five minutes later, he found himself seated in the booth Hannah had occupied when he first arrived. He slid her drink across the table, where it stopped just shy of her fingertips, which curled around it apprehensively, as though it were poison. Maybe Biblically speaking, it was, in relation to sin. But like that mattered anymore? God had left them years ago. The apocalypse and Metatron’s takeover had made that painfully apparent.

“Can I ask what happened? Or do you not want to talk about it?”

“I…” He didn’t know. He was torn, for wanting to avoid the issue like pestilence but also for wanting to discuss it. He wanted reassurance, or answers. Either would do. However, she’d mentioned she had no intel for him when he’d mutely stood in front of her like a zombie. “I just don’t understand why it is always like this. I feel like I’m pulling teeth, trying to get him to say basic words.”

Hannah pursed her lips, taking a first sip from her beverage before her nose scrunched up from the taste, and she withdrew, blinking a few times. It was reminiscent of how Ambriel treated alcohol as well, although his sister was generally much more jovial than Hannah. “That is...strong. Wow. But about Dean...well...I don’t want to reiterate heaven’s opinion again for you, because you know how we feel, but we’ve always thought you could do better. Personally, I...I’ve always been of the belief people can change. And I don’t know what to tell you, how to change him, or if it’s even possible with how many deep, psychological baggage he’s got, but I can say definitively that no matter where you go or what you do, I’ll support it, Cas. It’s what friends are for, right?”

Ah. There was that word again. _Friends._

He took a long, hardy sip from his cocktail and gave the room a onceover. It certainly had changed in the time he’d known it. The hot bartender he’d met here no longer worked behind the counter, with his Dean Winchester eyes and delightfully open daddy issues. The decor had shifted, from hole-in-the-wall photos from 1913 of a town Cas didn’t know the name of, to Ikea-esque furnishings and modern deco color schemes of black and white. He felt ancient in comparison to it now. 

And yet, so unwise. Millennia clearly hadn’t done him any good in the critical thinking department. Hannah hadn’t been on Earth for too long, occupied elsewhere in heaven before the fall. She was new to this, albeit not as new as Ambriel, and yet, instead of exploring as destined for those who chose to remain after the Metatron crisis was solved, she sat in this bar, discussing what was old news for everyone with wings with him. Apparently, it had been the talk for years, the ‘will they or won’t they’ of heaven, if Dean and him would get together. Maybe it should’ve been demeaning, that their relationship was a soap opera for the angels, but Cas found that he didn’t mind all that much. Perhaps it was desensitization. 

Again, the guilt washed over him, as he’d been waiting for. Was it emotional cheating, seeking out Hannah for advice when Dean offered nothing to him? Not even an admission of their marriage, of their sacred vow to each other in front of his father? Still, he was angry, even though hours had passed, and his phone had been vibrating so frequently from incoming calls that he’d set it to silent and allowed the lockscreen to pop up with each one more with little attention paid to it as he watched Hannah down the rest of her drink. Was John’s approval worth more than dancing underneath twinkle lights to corny pop picked out by Ambriel? Was it worth more than the excess of nights spent with the hunter where he should’ve been paying attention to the decaying of his brother’s wings, and the walls coming up between them as they lowered for the younger Winchester? Was it worth more than almost a decade of companionship and love? A year of marriage?

Why was he not...good enough?

Humans were confusing, unintelligible creatures. At least angels usually made sense. There was no sense of wanting to please his deadbeat father present in Castiel, as proven by the drinks he’d brought for him and Hannah. Sin was irrelevant. He would never betray Sam and Dean for heaven. For someone else’s approval. Especially someone as flawed and awful as John Winchester, with his alcoholism and judgement and homophobia. 

It was just Dean, as well, because why would it be Sam? The younger of the two couldn’t have cared less what his father thought of him. Screaming matches were a daily occurrence growing up. And while Sam didn’t have perfect control of his priorities, at least his were more understandable. Jessica was an ideal human being, mostly, the love of his life. Putting her first, before Gabriel, was understandable, albeit no less hurtful for his brother, who had suffered enough from loneliness his entire life, not to mention his recently crippled wings. 

But Dean. God. What the actual hell.

What kind of grip did that man have over him? 

 

\---

“Not now, Dean.”

 

He meant it. Not because he didn’t have time, as he’d repeatedly told Castiel, but because he genuinely did not want to hear whatever was about to leave his brother’s mouth. In fact, Sam wasn’t even willing to spare a glance for whatever irrelevant topic Dean ran into the war room to discuss with him. Whatever it may have been, it paled in importance to what he was currently doing, which had been, up until that moment, trying to crack a code from the finished journals Gabriel had left behind. Granted, it was Metatron’s writing, and this was merely a translation, but perhaps, maybe, the archangel’s vanity had let him leave some kind of secret message within it, in the case they should ever need to find him again.

It sounded insane, and very unlike Gabriel, whose last secret message to them, if you could call it that even, was a direct statement within a DVD of Casa Erotica, but it was the only lead Sam had. Castiel had come up with nothing, aside from more anger regarding Dean’s secrecy about their marriage, and Ambriel was nowhere to be found. She’d seemingly disappeared off the Earth according to Cas, who, in lieu of being upset about it, seemed more stressed than anything. Sam, conversely, was panicked as hell. He hadn’t slept more than two hours in a row since...he had actually lost track of when the last time he got a full night’s rest, but it had been a while. 

His main goal for the past couple weeks had been trying to get a line on Gabriel, but the archangel was zilch on everyone’s radars. They’d run into a similar issue with Castiel whenever he and Dean had gotten into that explosive argument that sent them looking for him for four solid months. As humans, the angels were basically untraceable. And Gabe was almost, if not fully human at this point, wings weathered away to crusty bones. He felt terrible even thinking about it. 

Which, he tried not to. Letting himself fall into the rut that was self-loathing wasn’t helping find the Trickster, so he suppressed it. But that didn’t mean he didn’t feel wholly responsible for this. And each second more that ticked by without any sign of life regarding the guy, well, it was another second that he could’ve been dead, all Sam’s fault.

Seconds that Dean was intending on wasting, obviously, by coming in here and distracting him. “I know you’re busy, but please, man. It’s kind of urgent.”

If this had to do with pie or some off-handed comment made by John that made his brother downspiral into a hyper breakdown, he was going to reach across the table and strangle him. Gently, he closed the book in front of him, inhaling deeply before sighing a curt, “Yes?” He made to look up at his brother, gauge the level of tolerance he needed to set himself at, but was caught preemptively by the sight of Dean holding something small and silver between his fingers. A ring.

Fuck. No. A wedding ring. Cas’s, to be exact, because Dean wore his on a necklace, so that it wouldn’t get damaged in fights. “What?” Sam managed to sputter, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. “What happened? Where did he go?”

“I...I can’t tell Dad, about us. I don’t know why, it’s just, everytime I try, my entire body tenses up and I feel like I’m paralyzed. And he came in, a few minutes ago, holding that photo of us from the wedding. You know, the one where Cas and I have our rings on, and you and Gabe were on either side? It’s the only one I had developed. He asked about it, and I panicked, and I said we were just friends, trying to backtrack and...well, Dad took that as an okay answer, but then Cas and I got into it, and he gave me an ultimatum, which I said wasn’t fair, but he threw his ring at me and left anyway, ‘until I tell Dad about our profound bond.’” The air quotes Dean usually used were humorous, but in this situation, all Sam could feel was a mixture of pity and annoyance at the gesture. His brother sighed, leaning against the table, his face cleanly showing how old he actually was in that moment more than Sam had ever seen it. And while Dean being in angst was nothing new--those four months they missed Cas were fucking brutal--this was different, somehow. More mature. 

At least Sam didn’t have to pull teeth this time to get to the truth. “So? Tell Dad. Or I’ll tell Dad. Dean, you know he has a right to be upset. You two got married. That’s an incredibly public admission of your relationship, and he had to fight relentlessly to get you to reveal your feelings to him in the first place. So you can see where he might be tired of hiding? He’s proud of the fact that he loves you. Let him be. Just tell Dad and get it over with.”

Not that Sam didn’t empathize, but--okay, no, Sam actually didn’t empathize at all with this situation. Sympathize, maybe, but he had never once understood the intense, sturdy grip of their father over Dean’s personal compass. His likes, his interests, his decorating style, his values, all co-aligned with their father’s, and he’d barely bothered to differentiate. He’d designed himself to be Daddy’s little soldier, and while Sam had past accepted that part of his brother’s personality by now, it didn’t make it any less bizarre or sad. 

“Did you not just hear me? I’d love to tell Dad. Well, actually, no, I wouldn’t, but I literally can’t, Sam. I look at him and freeze until my mind comes up with some excuse to walk away from the situation.”

“Then I’ll tell him.”

“No! That’s not...no. He needs to hear from me. I know that. I do. But Cas, just...God, you know that I love him, and that that has nothing to do with this, right? Because he doesn’t seem to understand that. If it could just wait a little longer, until this Raphael situation is over with, I’d feel better about telling Dad, because then, if he wants to storm off and be pissed at me, then fine. But for now, we’re all stuck here, and it’s going to make working together impossible if he knows what Cas and I do behind closed doors. There’s no way around that.”

“What the hell are you so afraid of, Dean? He’s just a man. You married an angel. We have killed demi-gods, and trapped the Devil himself. There’s nothing scary about him after all of that. Cas and I had to pull you from the closet with force. Please don’t make us have to do it again. Get in front of this, and I’ll tell Cas you did it. Easy.”

Yes. Easy. Except Dean was going to argue it, for some reason. Even though it was, quite literally, elementary-level understanding that there was only one way this situation was getting solved, and Cas had set the terms. Going through with them should’ve been doable. But no. As usual, Dean wanted his way. Typical, Sam thought, as soon as he saw his brother’s expression shift. 

Interestingly enough, it didn’t go the direction he thought it would, nor did the softness of Dean’s voice when he mumbled, “Easy. Seems to apply to a lot of things around here, as a lie at least..”

 _Let it go_ , his brain immediately said, but before the words came to fruition, Sam had already asked in puzzlement, “What do you mean?”

“You, living in your happy little sham of the glory days with Jessica, or at least, trying to. You’re not fooling anyone. Mom and I have talked about it.”

“Excuse me?” He felt uneasy, like the rug had been pulled out from underneath him, and the table had shifted, along with reality. “What?”

Dean exhaled, glancing to the ceiling for inspiration before coming back down to pull an expression that was equal parts unamused and exhausted. “You’re not the guy I picked up from Stanford ten, twelve years ago anymore. You’re not some preppy college senior who’d seen a few vampires and ghosts, but nothing too serious. It’s like you said. You got possessed by the Devil. You watched me get mauled by hellhounds. You underwent the trials. Sam, you are not that guy anymore. And she still is that girl, is the thing. There’s no shame in calling it quits.”

“So what, just because I’ve been through some shit means I’m just supposed to throw in the towel on the best relationship I’ve ever been in?” He countered. He wanted to ignore Dean’s point, even though it was essentially a losing battle. Those were all facts his brother had stated. He couldn’t fight that. 

“No, but I also don’t think you should’ve given up on the one person who even slightly understood what you went through just so you could give an old flame a new shot.”

Ouch. Sam dropped his gaze like he had been looking at the sun, staring intently at the cover the journal in front of him, where the very person he was assuming his brother was talking about had scrawled out the phrase, _“Metatron’s Bullshit, Volume VII.”_ It stung. Not just what Dean was implying--because that meant Sam evidently hadn’t been subtle at all about his feelings for the Trickster, since his brother was about as observant as a hibernating bear--but also that he’d given up. He hadn’t. At least, he had never intended to make it seem that way, but maybe it had. It must have, since Gabe was...no longer here.

His heart ached. “Thanks for your insight, Dean. I’ll make sure to sleep on it.” Or not sleep on it, more likely. He wanted to forget everything his brother just said. There wasn’t enough room in his head for that conversation right now, whether or not he’d made a mistake by choosing Jessica.

Dean sighed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make it worse. I know you’re trying your best to find him.”

“Well, you know as well as I do that if he doesn’t want to be found, he won’t be,” Sam mumbled, his entire being collapsing on the inside. His brother’s words, despite his attempts to banish them to the trunk he was suppressing every other horrible thought in at the moment, had busted the mechanism loose and released each and every notion of guilt, wrongdoing, and moment of self-hatred he had upon his attempt to squash this one troublesome concept.

“As the Trickster, yeah. But he’s limited on resources without his wings, and he doesn’t have those anymore. I don’t think he does, at least.”

Sam shrugged noncommittally. “I’m not sure. The last time I saw them, they were looking pretty torn up. I don’t think he can fly.”

The silence he received in response was untypical of Dean, and when he glanced up, he found the hunter staring at him, stunned. “What?” he asked, genuinely confused.

“His wings. You’ve seen them?”

“Y...yeah. Why?” He didn’t like where this was going. It could’ve been a breakthrough, but Dean didn’t act like he had a lightbulb atop his head anymore than a fruit headdress.

It took his sibling a moment to speak, and when he did so, it was with an utter quiet. Quieter than Sam had heard him in quite some time. “I’ve never...seen Cas’s. It’s apparently a historical honor or something to have an angel reveal its wings to you. He was going to, and then I got the call from Garth, and it’s been on hold ever since. Not sure if I’ll ever see them now. But damn, Sam. I can’t believe you’ve seen them before. Like, real, in person, with the feathers and everything? Not just shadows?”

Dean almost sounded like he was nerding out over the wings. But each sentence more just made Sam’s heart sink lower and lower. “Yes,” he rasped, swallowing the lump in his throat that had been building for the past few minutes. A historic honor. “They’re...unbelievably beautiful. Even when Gabe’s were torn up, I still…”

He couldn’t say anymore. “I miss him. I just need to know he’s okay, and if he never wants to talk to me again, that’s fine, because I deserve it, but Dean, I--”

“I know, Sammy.” The older Winchester looked down at his feet before returning his gaze to his little brother, sitting across the table with poorly concealed agony strewn all over his face, dark circles black as night under red, upset eyes. “It’s gonna be okay. We’re going to find Gabriel. I’m gonna tell Dad about me and Cas. We’re gonna kick Raphael’s ass. And we’ll all be home in time for Sunday dinners. You have my word on that.”

Sam nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soo I don't normally update twice in one day, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and I have a research paper I'm supposed to be doing instead of this, so guess who did literally everything else on her to-do list except the paper??? I'm not in paper-writing mode is the thing. I write fanfiction in the summer. It's when I have time. It's what makes me happy. This disrupts my scheme, gives me anxiety, and enrages my Aspergers by forcing me to deviate. Ugh. College, man. One more year and then I'm out.
> 
> Anyway, unrelated to my woes, the characters have plenty of their own. Next chapter, we get to see Gabe look for some holy guidance and find instead that devils are sometimes in the most mysterious of places. Til next time.


	19. Save My Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The house of the holy holds nothing but bad memories and even worse present times for Gabriel.

He didn’t know why he’d come.

There was a profound difference between what he was doing and what had been suggested by the man who hired him, but something, perhaps spite, had motivated him to trek out in the rain to the church on the outskirts of the city, where he currently stood, awaiting judgement on all four sides by chipped white walls and colorful albeit false stained glass depictions of Biblical events. The building hadn’t seen work in years according to the outside, and he had his doubts as to whether or not it still had a practicing assembly on Sundays. This could’ve been illegal, trespassing, if not. Of course, that mattered little to him, as did his life in itself, but still. 

He’d been notably more successful at following the laws now than when he had been an angel, and saw no reason to change that. It kept him under the radar, where unwelcome noses would have to acquire bloodhound-like tracking in order to find him. It was convenient, this way. Better for him. After all, what would he disobey the rules for? If there was nothing much to live for, there wasn’t much else to rebel for either.

“Hell, with a sound like that, you could be a serial killer and I’d still hire ya, kid.”

Gabriel wasn’t accustomed to someone believing he was younger than the approximate age of the universe itself. It was unsettling, doubled by the clap of the hand upon his shoulder as Mr. Grey had chuckled, the sound tapering off into the distance as he faked a smile in response. “I don’t suppose you’re a man of God, are you? The folks and I sometimes play for church service as well in town.”

A man of God. Hardly. He’d been the messenger of God, an annunciator and a force to be reckoned with, golden wings spread as far as the dawn itself, never a man, until now, when God had left them. His father could’ve done with the revelation that parenthood extended way beyond adulthood. That creation meant caretaking, if he did his job correctly, which, he did not, obviously, or else Gabriel would currently be a man of God rather than a self-conscious mess vying for a small opening as a horn player in New Orleans.

“Not quite.”

“Ah, well. To each their own, I suppose. If you ever want to come with and get right with the Lord, let me know. We’d love to have you.”

Getting invited to church service by his boss was likely an invitation he should’ve taken as a great compliment of his interviewing skills, acne or no acne, but interestingly enough, it only caused him heartache. Church was not a place for him, now or ever, but especially not now, with the countless sins on his resume. As the Trickster, he’d done terrible things. Whether or not they were to people who deserved them seemed irrelevant to organized religion. He was a sinner, through and through, who sought not to change his ways, until maybe he did.

Ambriel had sent him out for milk and he’d ended up here, wandering some unspoken path to find this particular altar in front of him. The collection plates were still out, empty, but existent on a stand in the middle. The podiums adorned with old, tarnished fabric bearing holy symbols. Humanity associated God with light, purity, order, and yet, heaven was a wreck, ruled by a madman with a bloodlust for those who’d wronged him. Archangels were never the forgiving type. They didn’t have to be, as there was no higher being than they, now that the man upstairs had taken a flying leap out the seventh story window.

Gabriel had not been an exception until seeing Cas in Los Angeles. He’d craved redemption from his brother, the desire to do right as Castiel deserved from him for his betrayal in heaven. Then, that began to extend, covering Ambriel, and then, oddly enough, the Winchesters, even though he owed them nothing. Still, he’d wanted to make up for something, Mystery Spot maybe, to Sam, whose life had been wrecked by prophecies unsuited to someone as pure as him. He’d gotten too invested though, in the craving. It evolved, from redemption to something he would’ve called love if the word would ever leave his tongue. But he wasn’t comfortable saying it anymore. Not when he knew it wasn’t returned. 

“Oh Father, who art drinking in some beaten down bar’s happy hour, I beg thy counsel and forgiveness.” 

Said with heavy, bitter sarcasm, he was unsurprised that his pleas were left unanswered by the whispering, harsh winds outside, rocking against the window and wooden boards holding up this dilapidated shack. The thunder he heard overhead signaled nothing of a heavenly nature, let alone presence, not had he expected it to. He was not one of the many fools who interpreted rumblings overhead as guidance from God. 

Why he’d bothered making the journey out here eluded him. It wasn’t possible that he still had hope in his father after all of this. The apocalypse had crushed any remaining belief he had in the old man. Asking now for some kind of sign, when times were noticeably less dire, and the fate of the world didn’t hang on the edge of a string, was pointless. If he hadn’t answered then, of course he wouldn’t answer now. 

Gabriel wasn’t an exception, and his lack of grace didn’t make him special. If Lucifer and Michael trying to kill each other and half of Earth in the process wasn’t enough to coax the old man out of hiding, why would his pathetic whining be any different? Just because he wanted his birthright back, to feel the wind on his face again as he crisscrossed the world, jumping from place to place with a fake smile--like that mattered, to God?

He supposed maybe he had retained more hope than he’d previously let on, since the deafening silence hurt like the heavens himself were crushing him with the weight that even when he wasn’t asking for very much, just a small scrap of the man’s attention, he still wasn’t worth God’s time. 

Forcing a smile in lieu of tears, he whirled around, prepared to leave this venture as it should have been in the first place, but was interrupted by the shuffle of wings, and the shadow in the doorway taking shape as he strode out from the darkness and into the faint light coming in from the flashes of lightning outside. Instantly, his body froze, expression dropping immediately, and a single, most unholy word coming to mind.

What a place to meet my end, Gabriel mused miserably, casting another glance around at his surroundings with displeasure. It was almost ironic, dying in a place of worship to his father. Almost felt like a political assassination without the otherworldly context. 

“Hello, brother.”

_Fuck._

He felt naked, unarmed with nothing but the blade tucked inside his coat for emergencies. He’d had no intention of using it when he’d come down here, but he would if necessary, assuming the opportunity presented itself. His reflexes were not what they used to be. He was no warrior anymore, after a lifetime of treating himself to the torment of others and a smorgasbord of sweets, but he supposed he was as prepared as he could be for something like this, despite how uncomforting a thought that was.

He swallowed a substantial lump in his throat, unable to find the sarcasm that usually aided him in situations like this. The apprehension he felt blanketing his body was heavy, heavier than the bags he’d lugged upstairs to that cheap rental house he’d put a down payment on in town, and heavier than the knowledge that he wasn’t likely to come out of this building unless it was on a personal escort to the void by the person standing before him.

It could’ve been any of the angels up above, so the statistical probability he would guess the identity of the intruder was slim to none, even though knowing might help his chances of surviving this. However, after a few seconds of silent contemplation, accompanied by the splatter of rain against the thick, painted glass of the windows, he figured he’d best not take a stab in the dark with his current state. Literally or metaphorically. “Let me guess,” he stated in an achingly annoyed deadpan, “You’ve come to eliminate the competition for the manager’s position?”

“Bravo. Although, I imagine you’ve heard tell of my intentions from those defectives you associate with.”

Defectives. The language narrowed down his options, including one he’d rather not face on a day like today. It was almost poetic, the way the situation had played itself out. Either that or a very bad joke. He smiled to himself at the thought, glancing at his feet to regain some semblance of his footing, which had begun to become lost amongst his soaked jeans and painfully paralyzed frame.

“How nice it is to know that we still have each other’s backs as brothers,” he muttered scathingly, tightening his grip around the edges of the jacket whilst slipping his other hand inside and grabbing onto the hilt of the blade stashed within the inner pocket. He took a single step forward, exhaling a small, short breath.

The figure mirrored his move, walking forward and bringing light to his figure as he did so. At the motion, the first man who had entered the church sucked in a deep breath, recognizing those eyes without so much as a moment of hesitation.

“Oh, Gabriel…” his older brother whispered, feigning sympathy as he made a wide gesture with his right hand, lips upturned in a mirthless smile. The flickering glare of a long-edged sword glinted on his other side. “We both know you’ve never had anyone’s back but your own.”

He wasn’t able to contain his sigh at the sight of Raphael taking a few strides towards him, body deflating with the realization that these were his last moments before he was mutilated by a being he’d once fought beside and loved. What days those were, in heaven. 

“Raph,” he forced a light-hearted chuckle, slipping into the guise of the Trickster for sake of saving face. “It’s been a while.”

The dark-skinned man smiled mirthlessly. “Yes. It has, hasn’t, dear brother? I almost forgot what you sounded like. The color of your wings, even, although I’m finding them difficult to see at the moment. I can’t imagine why.”

Gabe stiffened where he stood, fingers closing around the hilt of the blade beneath the fabric of his coat. What an interesting method of phrasing Gabriel’s newfound humanity, or, more so lack of angelic grace. He couldn’t imagine why? Oh, hardly.

Within a few seconds, the ex-archangel had convinced himself fully of his brother’s guilt in the crime of his lost grace. He wasn’t sure how, or why, really, although that presented many more possibilities than the first inquiry, but Raphael was responsible in some form or another. It was evident in his tone. His study posture, towering over Gabriel’s tiny vessel, not just in his own but in his true form as well, wings scrunched against the sides of the church, threatening to blow out the windows themselves were he to misstep and forget just how powerful he was. He’d done something to him. 

And now, Gabriel was likely going to die before he could attempt to enact the just desserts he deserved for it.

He could’ve called Ambriel, if this were anyone else, but he would have, and likely would, perish to keep her safe from his brother. While she might have been strong, tougher than Cas even at this point, she was nothing but a plastic bag in the wind to Raphael. The power scaling was unfair in their species, that this monster in front of him wound up wielding the ability to do unspeakable, selfish evils and his sister was left floundering. He wouldn’t bring her into this, for her own sake, so his fingers tightened over the one shot he had to save himself and prayed. Not to God but to himself. 

If this was it, so be it.

“Well, I would say it has been nice catching up, but...I think we both know what I’m here for.” Raphael’s hand appeared on the hilt of his sword just then, inching it ever so slightly from its sheath as Gabriel responded with the same sassiness he’d offered his sibling for as long as they’d been alive.

“To do your ten Hail Mary’s and then go back to butchering heaven? Yeah, I heard.”

Raphael seemed genuinely amused this time. “Hm. You haven’t changed at all, have you, Gabriel? Ah. Well. It just makes my job that much more fun, I suppose, puncturing your lungs with my blade and leaving you to die a slow, agonizing death while I’m off for the blood of those you love.” He sighed, taking a moment to fully unsheath his weapon and run his index finger across the dull side of the metal as he continued, not looking at him. “Those you left us for, I should say. I never imagined I would be equating you of all our siblings to Castiel, and yet…” A glance up, fire accompanying, stung his. “...here we are. If love humanity so much, it’s only fitting you should be demoted to their filthy ranks. And thus, you shall die a human’s death, by the hands of an archangel. The last one true to our Father’s intentions. Goodbye, brother.”

He saw the hand reach towards him at the same time he stepped backwards, stumbling for very sudden, real fear, and another voice joined the throng, this time from the doorway. 

“Hey, guys. Sorry to interrupt but, uh, today’s not really a good day for this, so I’m gonna have to ask you to cease and desist.”

The abruptness left Raphael still, frozen in air, with his hand firmly clutched onto Gabriel’s shoulder with a bone-breaking grip, and his sword pulled back for the plunge it would inevitably take into his flesh, his eyes burning into his younger sibling’s with the ferocity of an absolute maniac. Gabe was hesitant to redirect his gaze, but felt the need, as the voice sounded so familiar. 

As quick as it had come, the squeeze of celestial force on his body left, as Raphael spun around to face the doorway, where the arch overhead shrouded its owner in blackness. “Oh. It’s you.” Not disappointed, but displeasure nonetheless colored his assailant’s words. “Well, if you’re that insistent upon dying, be my guest. There’s nothing wrong with killing two angels with one blade.”

“Dying? Oh, come on! Did you not just hear me? None of that today. Ugh, wow, you’re just as bad at listening now as you were in heaven. ‘Raphi, don’t do this, Raphi, don’t do that.’ Always trying to take our responsibilities. Jeez, have some creativity, would ya? This is just sad. In fact, I can’t even watch it happen, it’s so tasteless. So I tell you what, I’m gonna send you back to heaven, and you’re gonna think on it for a while, come up with something better. Sound good?”

“What?”

The recognition of that nonchalant, borderline mocking tone should have been a comfort once he identified the speaker. And if it were anyone else talking, maybe it might have been.

“Awesome. Bye, buddy.”

The slam of a hand against the wall, the light filtering through in the cracks as it expanded, and the blinding, radiance consumed Raphael with a blistering, angry yell accompanied the words not a second later, as Gabriel backed up, careful to avoid the ledge behind him and grabbed onto the table for balance, upsetting the offering plates as he did so. They clattered to the floor with muted noise as the light faded out, revealing once more the darkness that settled in between him and the presence underneath the white arch across the room. 

A few moments of silence passed over the two before the interloper bothered to come forward, striding ahead with a lax kind of confidence before halting a couple feet away and offering a deceitful grin at the terrified ex-archangel latched onto the table, one hand still dug in his coat for his blade.

“Hey, bro. How’s it going?”


	20. Gods and Monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean takes a mighty stand for what he believes in, and Cas falls from grace in a way he never expected to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the s14 episode title list is circulating, and I'd just like to say I named this chapter way before I saw that announcement, mainly for the Lana Del Rey song content. (I mean, hello?) Anywho, get ready for a ride. Cas is on a slippery slope and about loses his footing here in all of his stress.

Grey, splotched with offset white across the surface, haphazardly but with a peculiar yet pleasing arrangement colored the ethereal coverts in front of him as they gently swayed with their owner to the music. Her feet were out of time, but so were his, so he figured that made them even despite the frequent toe-stepping and childish laughter that led to where they currently stood as the melody behind them shifted. 

It was on the first beat that they both coincidentally put the appropriate foot down, not just at the correct time but in the corresponding place for each. That first beat that reminded Castiel that there were better places he could’ve, and should’ve been when he wasn’t. Things he should have been doing. There were numerous lists of tasks, insurmountable in number and yet his time so limited, there hardly seemed a point in attempting any of them at all at the moment. Not to mention, doing most of those required face-to-face or verbal interactions with a person he’d rather not see.

That person being the selfish trainwreck he’d pelted his wedding ring at three days ago, in a heat of the moment argument over a longstanding issue that, as of the last time he checked his inbox, still sat unresolved, awaiting some form of resolution. At first, it had given him anxiety, the waiting. When it came down to crunch time, would Dean immediately act? Or would he mull it over, properly decide his words and then attack the situation with preparedness? Tick tock, tick tock, as he sat in the updated, Scandinavian-chic booth, sipping on a mojito across from the closest thing he had to a friend in heaven.

As the first day had passed, and his nerves settled into numbness over the situation, Hannah had been a very soothing presence. She neither judged nor pried, offering her friendship without terms. They’d discussed quite a bit regarding Raphael then, on the second day. All business, mostly. Today was pleasure, as they watched Dirty Dancing as it played overhead on one of the cable networks allotted by the bar’s TV, and Hannah inquired as to whether or not he’d ever done something like that in his time on Earth.

The answer had been no, discreetly, and for the record, he’d never really come anywhere close to the level of expertise showcased by the actors in the film. Ambriel always said he had to be drunk to dance, that it was the only time his stiffness and general lack of artistic motor control disappeared to let his inhibitions thrive. So, as a response--to multiple things, really--Cas had then proceeded to down an impressive amount of alcohol over the course of half an hour and offered his hand to Hannah, who took it with only a small grain of apprehension. Thus, they became the swinging duo in the mostly empty building, twirling clumsily past pool tables, and attempting move unbefitting of beings as awkward as them.

And Cas laughed as they swayed, genuinely, for the first time in a while. It was naive to pin down his unhappiness in the Bunker to recently, when realistically, it had been a constant, nagging animal nipping at his legs ever since he’d discovered Raphael was alive, and that they were all in eminent danger. In fact, he should’ve been more concerned about that, presently, but the will was buried somewhere between Hannah tripping over her own feet and nearly stumbling face-first into the brick wall. When his fingers reached out to clamp onto her arm, it wasn’t stress-driven. Instead, it was simply fun, which was a foreign element of his life as of the past couple months. 

It was as though this bar existed outside of the space and time where his worries congregated. His intense, unyielding worry over Gabriel staying in New Orleans, and worse off, the inconceivably heavy and ever-growing guilt for keeping that knowledge from Sam, who was teetering dangerously on the edge of losing his mind altogether with each day longer that he found no clues as to the archangel’s location. Then there was Dean, the man he’d married and entrusted with his heart after the hunter had essentially kicked it down the stairs a year earlier and left it in nearly irreparable condition. Dean, who he’d had to peel from the insides of his bisexual closet through use of ultimatums and force, neither of which were his first choices. And finally, Raphael, his arch-nemesis bent on making him die a slow, painful death, likely in front of those he loved, if not vice versa. 

In this place, hands intertwined with a friend, planting their feet off-time to the rhythm of some slow, Lana Del Rey ballad as they both giggled and snorted over functionally nothing thanks to the magical, wondrous effects of alcohol, his problems did not exist, and were not crushing him with the weight of a thousand suns. 

He wanted to stay forever. 

The abrupt slip of warm hands from his own caught his attention from musing, as Hannah took a step back, bending over to fix one of her shoes, which evidently had gotten some small, indistinguishable object lodged in them. Not a moment later, she was refitting her feet, and wandering back over to him, although her hands remained clear of his. “Despite the fact that we might be the worst dancers ever, in the history of our kind and man, this is just as fun as it looked like on that movie.” 

Cas smiled fondly. “I’m inclined to agree. Although, that could possibly be the tequila talking.” 

The angel in front of him leaned in closer, about losing her balance once more as she attempted a step forward, arms curling in to wrap themselves around his neck. It was an intimate, unfamiliar gesture, but his discomfort was delayed, and then faded, slowly, as he let the warmth settle over his shoulders, morphing into contentedness. 

Her human vessel was arguably one of the more beautiful he’d seen. Crystalline, cloudy sky eyes and curly but tame hair of an indistinguishably sorrel-tinted black. And her true form, although such things came secondary when in vessels, was also nothing shabby, albeit not as eye-catching as per se, Michael’s towering form or Gabriel’s radiant golden wings. She was pretty. The notion that he was just noticing all of this now, in combination with the temperature of her body and its close proximity to his own, when both were inebriated, was troubling.

The tropical storm that was his life felt ripe for disaster, especially one that listened to his relentless venting and was an ally to him in these dangerous times, where the slightest misstep could get her throat slit by the man in charge. And he was drunk, which historically meant that his judgement was severely impaired, even without those other factors in play. 

It was not aiding at all in this predicament either that Dean was functionally throwing in the towel on their partnership by siding with his own cowardice and the outdated, disgusting outlook perpetuated by his father. Cas had fought for Dean, physically, emotionally, and mentally, and bled for the man on more occasions than he could count, entangling himself in issues that had gotten him killed numerous times due to his own unabiding faith and love in his soul and in his cause. He loved Dean too much for his own good, and always had. It made every slight hurt more, and each retaliative comment sting with the force of a hive rather than a single wasp. 

He’d thought all of that was over when they’d gotten married. Six years of his now-husband growing close and then immediately pushing Cas back to arms’ length whenever things became just a little too gay for him to openly deal with, and upon that altar, his older brother standing beside him with a gleeful smile and wary eyes as they’d said their vows, Cas had assumed that their wedding meant the end of that behavior. Now, he was simply abusing the privilege that was Cas’s undying loyalty, and expecting no consequences from it. Evidently, not caring about the consequences from it either, seeing as they were rounding up on the third day without confirmation of John being told about their relationship.

It was all infuriating, and anger was the one lingering emotion from stress that crept its way into this remote, otherworldly place with him. It crawled underneath his skin and festered, making a home for itself beneath growing resentment and rapidly decreasing faith that Dean was actually capable of standing up for what they had. Like it was worth it, in comparison to his relationship with a man undeserving of his brave, tender heart.

“What’s wrong?” Hannah inquired, staring at him with those large, lightly shaded eyes of her vessel’s. Her expression contorted minutely, eyebrows falling in line to questioning. “Are you thinking about Dean again?” Another change, this time unamused. “Cas, come on. Hey. Don’t think about him. He hasn’t earned that privilege back yet.”

She had a point, although he was reluctant to admit it. Loving Dean would’ve been a much, much easier task if Dean treated himself with a basic amount of respect that didn’t include a major self-destructive streak with the power of a Knight of Hell behind its driving force. For all of his courage, the hunter couldn’t stand up to the one person who mattered, apparently. As was evidenced by the current surroundings.

When her arms slipped, fingers lightly tracing along his neck as they drew back, he let himself close his eyes in a rare moment of selfishness. This soft, gentle kindness was foreign. And the openness! God, the openness. It always felt so surreal, honesty. The Winchesters, even at their best, were still submerged in angst and poorly veiled secrets that went undiscussed for fear of how one another might react, and, after about eight years, Cas had gotten sucked into that as well. This was refreshing, truth. 

And truth he didn’t need to pull teeth to get, no less.

He should’ve been more concerned when that same set of fingertips found their way to trace the outline of his jaw, running along stumble and then once again dropping, this time to the knot of his tie, which hung as messy as usual. Slowly opening his eyes, he found her watching him intently with an unidentifiable expression. Her lips to parted to speak, but there were no words, at least, none of distinction, before she tightened her grip on his neckwear and brought his mouth to hers. 

First there was shock, and then, just as he’d predicted earlier, a lack of inhibition and sound judgement as he replied to the motion, digging hands into her hips and causing her to fumble, briefly separating them as she took a step back, then diving in once more. And Cas, like the absolute bonehead he’d become after years of exposure to flat-out mindless decision-making, kissed her back as she found herself backed into a corner, their bodies closer than they’d ever come when dancing. Airey, celestially laced wings crowded around him, brushing the side of his neck, visible to no one but the very person pressed roughly against her, one hand at the side of her waist and the other inching up her leg with a feverish urgency. 

But as he heard her voice, a soft murmur of his name, the realization seemed to dawn on him that the hand crawling its way up her skin was no longer his to command. He’d made a commitment. And regardless of whether or not he was being taken advantage of by that very contract, this, with Hannah, was wrong. Textbook wrong. Cas immediately withdrew his once ring-bearing hand and broke off their liplock, electricity surging through his body with a painful current. 

Oh _no._ What had he done...? 

He was petrified to look, see what damage he’d caused, but after a few seconds of silence, where he descended completely and utterly into madness over what had just transpired, he managed to tear his eyes away as she repeated a soft, uncertain, “Cas?” 

It wasn’t good. Her hair, frizzed in the back from having been frictioned relentlessly against the wall, and her skirt pulled up as a result of his handsy need to feel her flesh against his in needless, stupid passion. Those should’ve been the worst part too, but her face was perhaps the most heartbreaking part about what idiocy he’d just participated in, mostly because it wasn’t one-way.

Then came the sickening lurch in his gut from the real possibility that, judging from the look in her eyes, he didn’t just impale himself upon his own sword today. He might have also hurt Hannah as well.

“We can’t. This is…” He was struggling to find words as they rattled around his brain, stirred up by the oncoming wave of panic approaching at rapid speed. “I love Dean. I’m still married, to him, and doing this with you, it’s...it’s inexcusable. I’m sorry, Hannah.”

He didn’t expect her eyes to drop to her feet after his brief pause and continue, but they did, inflating the guilt already rising inside of his extremely queasy stomach. “Right. Of course.” A small smile, but not the kind he was used to from her. He’d seen it before, many a time, but most recently, it had been worn by his older brother when in presence of Sam and Jessica. It was fake, miserable. A transparent attempt to placate family or friends so they need not worry. 

A few more moments of silence passed between them, Castiel’s blood boiling in each second more elapsing, before he swiftly turned to leave, uncertain what else he could even say to rectify such a supremely awkward ending to their encounter. However, before he could bolt, he heard her speak again, the words unsteady. 

“Cas, wait. Maybe you don’t think you deserve better, but I know you do. Dean will never treat you the way you treat him. I’m not saying I’m any better. Hell, obviously I’m not, since I’ve been pining over you for years without saying anything. But you…” A subtle crack, a pause. Cas didn’t dare turn around, for fear that he might have to see her cry. 

They’d been dancing before this. They should’ve stayed that way. 

She inhaled behind him, taking in a deep, resounding breath before continuing, “Look, don’t expect any more help from heaven, alright? We’ve had our fair share of being stepped on because of how you always run back to the Winchesters. I adore you, Cas. But I’m not one of them. I can’t pretend anymore. So find someone else to help you, because I don’t think I can anymore.”

“Hannah--” he began, biting the bullet and turning, but he didn’t catch more than a smudged glance at her displeased and red-eyed expression before she’d snapped off, a flutter of wings in the winds the only sound indicating she hadn’t just disappeared into thin air.

If he so desired, he could’ve chased after her. He stood a chance at catching up. But what was there left to say? Sorry?

She wasn’t the one who deserved an apology at this point.

instead, he turned, spreading his wings with intent to visit the Bunker.

The concept sickened him, but he needed to go home. To look Dean in the eyes and carry back that honesty he so relished in the bar, grab his hand and sorely hope that they could get through this together. They could tell John. He would tell Sam about Gabriel, perhaps not directly as to avoid shattering the trust of his sister and brother, but in subtle hints that the hunter was still hopefully in a good enough mental place to understand. The four of them would be reunited once again, as a family. A happy family. 

He didn’t have any other choice.

\--

Dean had rewritten his words around one hundred times over to no avail. He checked with Sam, who, without a 3-day stretch of sleeplessness, could’ve probably been helpful, provided he wasn’t simply firing off brief, thoughtless nods of acknowledgement while he explored yet another route to finding the Trickster, never mind Dean’s predicament. It was only his marriage at stake. His marriage to his best friend, and the most fantastic and beautiful being who had ever looked in his general direction, mind you. Five minutes wouldn’t have killed Sam, though you wouldn’t hear that from him.

Maybe it was harsh, rubbing salt in his brother’s wounds over this nightmare, but in Dean’s humble opinion, all of this could’ve been avoided if Sam had just stayed true to the path he’d been following before Jess showed up and stuck with the lovestruck archangel who was missing in action. There was no telling the older Winchester that his brother hadn’t at least had some moderate to high romantic feelings for the guy after the bullshit in Devil’s Lake. Abandoning a person like that was traumatizing, and no one knew that better than him except for the very person he was intending to patch things up with. 

He wasn’t sure, honestly, why Cas hadn’t reamed Sam out yet over the matter, because there certainly was circumstance for it. Perhaps this particular scenario was even worse in some ways as well. When Dean had jumped the gun and hurt Cas, spurring their 4-month separation before he eventually admitted his feelings to the angel, he’d done so for his own insecurities rather than because he loved another person. Being compared to Jessica had to punch like a fucking professional boxer when you’re wingless, alone and have no life skills whatsoever. Not to mention, according to Cas, Gabriel was very sensitive about comparisons anyway. Hell, he’d gotten his feathers in such a ruffle over Cas stating both the Winchesters and the angels were his family, the two didn’t speak for a month. 

Assuming Sam’s listless, long hours in the library and study yielded results, it was extremely unlikely that Gabriel would respond well to his brother’s presence. They’d fought before he left, evidently, bad enough to the point where they didn’t see the archangel days beforehand leading up to when he did eventually fly the coop, and that was intense, considered how attached the guy had gotten to watching Hulu and Netflix in the common area. But Sam wasn’t going to hear any of this, both because Dean hadn’t mentioned it and because frankly, he wouldn’t open his ears anyway.

He was determined to find a solution. And Dean? Dean was determined to tell his father he was bisexual, married to an angel and, uh, oh yeah, sick of his fucking bullshit. The degrading, condescending comments had been steadily escalating to a high ever since the number of people in the Bunker who might object to such statements had decreased, and Dean genuinely couldn’t handle it anymore.

Again, he scanned the final draft of what was sure to be the beginnings of getting kicked in the teeth, both physically and verbally, by his dad. It seemed like a good summarization of his main issues, which were essentially the bullet points he’d listed earlier. It was not going to be a fun chat, irregardless of tone, so he kept that fairly casual. Respectful though. The one thing Sam had told him was that he stood a better chance at lengthening the calm segment of his admissions by explaining politely and treating him with courtesy. 

Those were not talents of his, but he’d tried. And trying would have to make do, because it was day three of Cas being out, and he had yet to hear signs of life from the angel in a world where it was knives from heaven. So, he took a deep breath, knocked on the door, and waited.

The shuffle of heavy footsteps preceded the face that he was greeted with. It was pleasant. A good sign. Perhaps. “Hey, Dad, you got a minute?”

“Sure, son. What can I do for you?”

“I…”

_I was thinking we could grab a burger. Things have been pretty tense around here lately and I’m getting stir-crazy._ The words were frozen on his tongue, like a VCR pressed to pause.

His father raised thick, dark eyebrows, interwoven with grey and cocked his head to the side questionably. “Yes?”

Dean loved whenever Cas did that. His eyes squinted, and he pursed chapped lips as the content matter of whatever he was trying to process flickered behind those oceanic blue irises of his. He was unrealistically, unfairly perfect, his husband. 

Husband.

With a burst of bravery he’d never felt in the presence of the man before him, he suddenly blurted, “I’m married. To Cas.”

John’s face remained unchanged, the only movement being a slow blink he gave Dean and a slight, involuntary eyebrow twitch. “I’m...sorry. What did you say?”

“I’m married to Castiel. We’ve been together for almost two years now, and friends for nearly a decade, and I...I know you don’t approve, and you don’t have to, but it’s done. I can’t change who I am. And who I am loves him.” 

“Dean, is this...your idea of a joke?” His father rubbed at his right eye blearily, staring tiredly off into the space right past his son’s face. “If so, let me get my coffee before I sit down and try to understand the punchline of whatever it is you just said.”

“There is no punchline. I’m bisexual.”

This was power he felt running through his veins. Nothing like the Mark of Cain, but pure, unblemished energy from climbing a mountain he’d thought was impossibly high. Dean Winchester was on top of the world, hands cupped around his mouth, yelling.

_I married an angel. An angel in a dude’s body. Fight me._

Unfortunately, he regretted the metaphorical essence of the final line, as John straightened up in the doorway, back stiffening and his eyes seeming to absorb any and all darkness around them into a black hole.

“No, you’re not,” John spoke dryly.

“Except, I am. Married to a dude, dad.” As if for emphasis, he pulled the chain up of his necklace, where the ring dangled, attached, pausing before continuing. “Well, technically an angel, but he’s still in a dude’s body and we, uh, bang, so yeah, definitely pretty bi.”

A sigh. “Dean. We’ve discussed this. You are no such thing. No son of mine--”

“Would turn out a fag. Yeah, I heard you. Loud and clear. Well, guess what? You were wrong. Not just about me either. Sammy isn’t up to admitting it right now, but he’s a little bit in love with that archangel we’re trying to find.”

Probably shouldn’t have said that. Wasn’t part of the plan, but oh well. He was burning bridges left and right. Might as well keep the fire toasty with new admissions.

The danger signs were coming up red, from the clenched fists at his father’s sides and the tight, angry grimace, but Dean wasn’t content to back down just yet. “Dean…”

“What, Dad? What are you going to do? Hit me?”

It was a test. So much for being respectful. Sam should have been his back up. 

“Don’t test me, boy.”

Oh goody. He was breaking out the southern plantation owner language. Dean was edging scandalously close to pushing his father to the brink of madness. Of confrontation. 

But he wasn’t some twelve-year-old boy anymore, with his hand caught in the cookie jar when his dad came home from a hunt, covered in blood, guts and scratches and his voice gravelly when he boomed at him to knock it off before he got his ass beat. 

No, no. Dean wasn’t in a position to be intimidated or physically beaten down anymore. He was a man. A man married to an angel, and the best one of their whole species at that. Southern plantation owners, or alcoholic father didn’t scare him anymore. 

Dean Winchester was the one who handed out ass beatings now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter we will hear from either Gabriel or Sam, and I haven't quite decided which, but both have their fair share of drama going on. It's beginning to become more clear to the Moose that Dean was right, that he made a wrong choice regarding Jessica. And Gabriel has a 12am lunch date at Denny's with a brother he'd rather forget. Still not sure which is coming first. Stay tuned.


	21. Try to Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Luci and Gabe have a heart-to-heart. In a Denny's, of course, because if your entire world is going to be turned upside down and spinning around on its axis, there's no other place quite as unreal as Denny's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not super happy with how this is written, but here it is. The college is too damn hot right now to reread a sentence and determine whether or not it makes sense, or if I used those words the last paragraph, so it may be edited in the future.

With an anxiety-driven push, the straw drifted once more through the circular pattern of the smooth, creamy milkshake in front of him, making one full loop and pausing, before starting over yet again in the same motion. Gabriel had been staring at it for what felt like an eternity, his ears ringing for longer than that, but realistically, only fifteen minutes had passed since he’d stepped into this particular Denny’s, shivering and cold from the rain and the company presently sitting across from him. The eyes watching him were a set he avoided with passion, along with the sound of the voice connected to them, yammering endlessly, as though the world might end if his irrelevant opinions weren’t expressed.

If it were anyone else, Gabriel wouldn’t have been so rude. But the figure in from of him didn’t deserve an ounce of his premium stock manners, swishing ice around his own drink with an annoying frequency as he spoke to fill the silence. For the first quarter of the hour, Gabe had been tuning him out successfully, along with the radio, which was playing some inappropriately sappy Lana del Rey ballad that made him think of Cas’s wedding, where the catalyst to turn his life into this unending nightmare had seemingly emerged and caused the current predicament he actively sat in. Now, however, his patience was thinning, as was his energy dedicated to ignoring every word out of his brother’s mouth.

“What I can’t seem to wrap my head around is why you were in a church at all, buddy. You know as well as I do that Dad doesn’t take prayer requests anymore. Unless, of course, you know something I don’t know.”

“I know when to shut my mouth. Does that count?” Gabriel muttered with an acidic tone. Lucifer didn’t deserve the courtesy of receiving a genuine answer, particularly when he himself had no right to be in a church period, being what he was. Gabe might not have been holy, true, but at least he wasn’t the Devil himself.

When he finally gathered the strength to look his sibling in the eye, Lucifer was feigning some kind of hurt expression, as though he could actually feel pain from the stinging sensation of the Trickster’s words. The very sight of it filled Gabriel with anger, although he made no mention of why. As though Lucifer had the right to be hurt by anything his younger brother said when he was the one who’d caused his death during the apocalypse. Really. 

Lucifer, who had been partially, if not mostly responsible for tearing their family apart in heaven with his brattiness and indulgence in matters better left untended to by him. The Mark put thoughts in his head he should’ve never let come to light and corrupt him, and not for weakness either. Lucifer did what Lucifer wanted, whether by the Darkness’s influence or not, because their father, like the ignorant piece of garbage he was, treated his second oldest with a kind of regality and awe not extended to Michael, Gabriel or Raphael, thereby driving a wedge between the spoiled fallen angel and the others. 

If Gabriel had the option to, say, gut him from across the table and walk away, unscathed, he would’ve do so in that very moment.

Do unto others as they’ve done unto you, as they say. Gabriel would sooner die by Raphael’s hand than turn the other cheek where his brother was concerned, on principle of Elysian Fields and heaven.

“You’re awfully mean, considering I just saved your ass from Raphael. Care to explain or--” Lucifer began nonchalantly.

“You stabbed me in a hotel and let me die, you fucking ass clown. Or did you just conveniently forget that in your time spent back in the Cage?”

Lucifer’s expression shifted, to something resembling genuine sorrow. Emphasis on resembling. Gabriel knew such a thing could never be true of a being like him. He dropped his hand from the straw he’d previously been using to push around the ice and placed it limply on the table after a moment of hesitation. “Right,” he spoke slowly, avoiding his younger sibling’s narrowed, whiskey eyes. “I didn’t forget.” He glanced upwards, meeting Gabe’s gaze with a fair amount of hesitation. “I just figured...an eye for an eye, you know? That wasn’t anything personal, bro. I love you. You know that. But Michael and I...I mean, you had to know you couldn’t stop the inevitable, right?”

“Stop the inevitable?” Gabe questioned, right eye involuntarily twitching as his fingertips squeezed the end of the straw he himself had been using to aimlessly paddle nonexistent circles in his milkshake. His other hand curled around the table, nails digging into the surface with a pain that served as a reminder of how it had felt, years ago, when he’d last really thought about fate, and specifically how it related to the prophetic story handed down by heaven and hell. “Really? How was that inevitable? Couldn’t one of you just admit you were wrong rather than fighting to the death? If you loved me, why did you knife me when all I was trying to do was protect the only thing I had left to consider a family?! Your pride never had to be some kind of immovable object, Luci, and you know it. 

He took a shuddering breath before adding, “You had the option to walk away, let me be. Let them be. But you’ve always been about the prize fight, and proving your dad-damn point to all of us that humanity is awful...you’d rather kill everything you love than admit a mistake in front of Michael. And he’s the same way. You’re both...you’re no brothers of mine.”

The scorned angel then took a long, hardy sip from his milkshake, draining an impressive amount from the clear, retro glass before swallowing, and sitting back against the worn cushion of the booth. It sounded harsh to an outsider, denouncing his family. But most people didn’t spawn Satan, or blindly follow a stupid story that dictated their own destruction. He didn’t even know why he’d bothered coming here with Lucifer. What had he been expecting? Maybe nothing. Maybe he’d just been in a frozen state of shock coming out of that church, the bone-breaking grip of Raphael still ghosting his shoulder. Yeah. Maybe that.

Glancing at his watch, he took note of the time, then slid out of the booth, announcing distractedly, “Well, I have a job to get to, if there’s nothing else. Thanks for the save, Luce. I’d say it was nice to see you, but it wasn’t.” As he turned to leave, however, the sound of his brother’s voice halted him, not for its abruptness but the lack of sass that came with it. 

“Gabriel. Wait a second, man. Just sit down. Hear me out. Please?”

Begrudgingly, he brought himself back around to face a set of features that had killed him, once upon a time. “Why? What is there that’s left to say? You are what you are, human or not.” At the ever so slight eyebrow raise he received, he continued smugly, “Yeah. I know. Because if you think I’m naive enough to believe you wouldn’t have smote Raphael where he stood in that church, and me with him, if you had your powers, you’re kidding yourself. You wouldn’t dare stand where you are now if you didn’t have to. So let me be the first to tell you, in case no one gave you the orientation already: welcome to humanity. It fucking sucks. Goodbye.”

The heavy, melodramatic sigh his brother gave then was visible as much as it was heard. Lucifer looked as aged as he was in that moment, trapped in his old vessel, Nick. Gabriel was very fortunate for that, he supposed, that it was the middle-aged blonde rather than the long-haired moose he’d gotten drunkenly kissed by many months ago. That would make this hurt somehow worse than it already did. 

“Okay, so let’s say you’re right. Michael and I are just being big babies about our convictions. I’ll entertain it. How do you suggest we resolve our differences? Or would you even know, since you left heaven before we even fought?” 

Gabriel shifted uncomfortably, very tempted to leave. But the self-destructive part of him, the part that wanted to be demeaned because he deserved it, kept his feet glued to the dark, carpeted floors of the Denny’s, staring at Lucifer with a mask of indifference as the devil continued, “Do you really think you’re any better than us? Running away? If Mike and I have our differences, then all of us do. Why do you think Raphael is out for your blood?”

“Is he?” Gabe inquired in a sarcastic deadpan, disinterested. “I hadn’t noticed. Why does any of that matter, Lucifer? This is all just a distraction. What, did you save me so you could kill me yourself? Because I’ll save you the trouble. This, right here, will be the last contact you and I ever have. Want to try and conquer the known world? Be my guest. I know better than to get in your way now, so have at it. Just leave me the hell alone.”

“Wow,” Lucifer chuckled. “Who puts cyanide in your Cheerios, bro? You seem to care an awful lot about your human existence. More than I would’ve expected from someone who used to party with porn stars.” 

The ex-archangel swallowed a lump in his throat and averted his eyes, unwilling to make a definitive comment on the first worthwhile observation Lucifer had had thus far in the past two hours. He was not going to open up to this monster about his problems, especially concerning Sam. That was just asking for a bad time. “Bold of you to assume you know anything about me considering you gutted me and left me for dead without so much as buying me a drink first not too long ago.”

“That’s fair.” Lucifer shrugged, shoulders falling as he exhaled, looking up at the ceiling for inspiration before clearing his throat and standing up straight. “Look, I get...that we aren’t exactly on the best of terms right now, you and I. But I saved you from Raphael. That has to count for something...right?”

“No. It doesn’t.”

An eye for an eye only made them even. 

His older brother groaned dramatically, rolling his eyes and spreading his arms to make a large messiah gesture of exasperation. “Ugh, Gabriel, come on! I’m trying, man. You’re right. This situation, being human, it blows, but I was thinking, we should try and stick together at least. There’s strength in numbers. And hey, maybe we could make amends while we’re at it. That sounds good, doesn’t it?”

“Nope. Pass. Also, you’re paying.”

“What? Uh, no. I don’t have any money. You’re the one with a fancy-schmancy job! I can’t get hired anywhere.” The devil’s voice dropped to a harsh, snarky whisper. “Apparently I have an ‘attitude problem.’”

Gabriel smirked. “Really? You? I never would have guessed. Anyway, it’s not my problem. You’re the one who dragged me out here in the first place.”

“But…” Lucifer’s eyebrows knit together in an expression of partial stress and partial exhaustion. “Gabe. Come on. Bail a brother out? Michael has the cash. And I’m not even sure we have ten bucks left to even leave a tip.”

Wait. What? The younger of the two paused, visibly working through his confusion by what he’d just heard, separating the sentences into small increments and attempting to form conclusions. “Michael?” he asked, mystified, while Lucifer began digging into the pockets of his jeans, coming up with nothing as he grabbed at the air packed into his clothes. He couldn’t even focus on being shocked that Lucifer, with his lack of table manners and general decency, would bother to leave a tip, especially on limited funds, because of that first part of what he’d said. “Wait. Luce. Hold up. Did you say Michael had your money?”

“Yeah,” Satan himself answered absentmindedly, now graduating to searching through his jacket, which had seen better days, admittedly, still to no avail. “Dumbass was supposed to go book us a hotel room for the night. He probably got lost or something. Who knows.”

“You’re staying with Michael…?”

For some reason, Gabriel was finding it difficult to wrap his head around this revelation. Michael and Lucifer existing in the same space for longer than two minutes without attempting to pin the other down to the ground and hold them at knifepoint just didn’t seem possible, with his experiences. Were things...different….now? Had the Cage altered that? Were they...tolerant of each other? Enough to share money and a hotel room? It didn’t seem right. 

Maybe he’d misheard.

Lucifer released a noise of frustration, coupled with yet another of equal maturity before he seemed to register Gabriel’s comment. “Huh? Oh. Yeah, Mike and I have been bunk buddies for a while now. Dude, could you please pay? I don’t want to dine and dash. That guy in the back looks like he could lay my ass out without even trying, and I don’t think I can outrun him in this vessel.” He scoffed. “Of course, this wouldn’t even be an issue if I were wearing Sam, but no, Sammykins had to get ‘rescued’ from the Cage. Loser. Pfft. Like I miss him.”

Gabriel did. But that was beside the point. Ignoring the queasiness in his gut at the mention of Sam, he reluctantly pulled out his wallet and laid a couple bills down on the counter, slowly processing the fact that this was all actually happening. The Devil was out of the box, as was St. Michael himself, and Raphael was out to kill all of them. Presumably, Michael was without grace, or, much like Lucifer, he would’ve already smote his brothers without a second thought. Oh, and he almost just died. 

Great. Awesome. Okay. This was fine.

He was not doing this. 

He was not going to do this. Absolutely not. Getting his heart broken by Sam was bad enough, and a clear abuse of his trust and beliefs. Doing this was just...it was just stupid, plain and simple.

But all he had was Ambriel anymore, and she couldn’t possibly understand what he was going through. And she did try. But the despair that had taken root in him was of a special nature, one that only others who’d been put through the ringer he had could understand. And he needed someone to listen. Someone who did understand being powerless, demoted to a speck amongst billions from a being higher than the heavens themselves. Someone who understood being alone. 

Sam had said he was just like his brothers. Time to put that to the test. Temporarily, of course. Gabriel wasn’t up for playing mind games anymore.

“Oh, wow. Thanks, man. I really appreciate that. Remind me to buy you a soda the next time I cart your ass away from Raphi.”

“Sure,” the Trickster said nonchalantly, gathering all of his strength for the deathwish he was just about to embark on. “Look, Luce. Let me make something clear: I don’t trust you, and I don’t even really like you. You’re still a big bag of dicks as far I am concerned. But if you want to change my mind, bring Michael here next Tuesday. We can have dinner. Talk. See if there is truth to your claims about wanting to make amends.”

“Seriously?” His older brother asked, astonished. “Uh. Yeah. Sure. Okay. See you at dinner time, then? 5pm?”

“Lunch.”

Family dinners were not something he was even close to wanting to tackle. Now or ever. His blood still boiled over the last one he went to, where he’d lost a fight and cried for the first time in centuries because he didn’t matter anymore. Nothing had really changed since then.

If Lucifer and Michael were to fool him, he didn’t care at this point. His life could’ve ended in that church, but it didn’t mean much, to be standing here, alive. So what did he have to lose, really? His life?

Oh please. Like that mattered.

“Alright. Awesome. See you on Tuesday, buddy! I’ll make sure to bring a quarter so we can request ‘Heat of the Moment’ on the jukebox. Sound good? Great. Bye, Gabe. ” Snapping tasteless finger guns at his younger sibling, Lucifer backed up, winking, before abruptly turning to exit through the doors, and banging his head off the glass, quickly following that up with a hasty, embarrassed exit.


	22. Blood in the Water

One wouldn’t be able to tell by the proud, self-satisfied smirk of the hunter against the counter, but Dean Winchester wasn’t looking so hot. As his younger sibling dabbed at the dried blood with a wet washcloth, taking due care to be gentle in absence of the one practicing nurse in their family, Dean spoke, not bothering to keep his voice at a whisper in the eerie stillness of the kitchen.

“That felt incredible.”

Sam, whose shaky hands dictated the actions of cold water against the purple shiner on his brother’s right eye, was hesitant to grant a response. “What? Getting decked by Dad?”

“No, confronting him. I don’t remember the last time I did that, if I ever have. It was...what’s the word?”

“Cathartic,” Sam replied softly, avoiding the pride and glee radiating from Dean’s smile, not for envy of warring with their father, but for envy of being able to stage a confrontation. Sam had no qualms with the man that he didn’t immediately bring to attention when in conversation with him, but the same could hardly be said of others in his life.

“Cathartic. Yeah. That.” Dean’s gaze drifted downwards to settle on the dusty, unkempt tile before renewing his confidence and continuing on a higher note, “Hey, you messaged Cas, right?”

“Uh, no. Not yet. Sorry. I was a little bit busy tending to the bruises from your sudden confidence.” Also, shouldn’t this news have come from his brother? Sam questioned to himself. Granted, Cas wouldn’t be able to tell the difference from a phone screen whether or not an incoming call from his husband was yet another groundless plea to return home or an exciting admission of having slain a personal dragon to fulfill his end of an unwilling bargain, but Sam had neither the patience nor the desire to step into his old role of middleman between Dean and the angel. 

It hadn’t been a position he’d missed, and aside from that, there were far more urgent matters for him to attend to, such as returning to his previous position of staring numbly at a wall in anticipation of a breakthrough that, deep down, he knew wasn’t going to happen. Because he’d not heard or seen any news whatsoever suggesting that he was on the right track when it came to estimating the potential location of the Trickster, it was safe to say that he had stayed at square one this entire time, and Gabriel could be dead for all he knew.

However, Sam didn’t entertain that notion, nor give it a home or place of lodging in the favor of holding tight to a slipping hope that Raphael had grown lax in his desire to take revenge on what he viewed as up-and-coming threats, and let his bounty on the archangel go unprinted and unplastered across the walls and districts of heaven, where some rogue could pick up a copy and decide to go better their rapport with the man in the high castle. On that same note, he was also hoping Gabriel had at least compromised with his need for the spotlight by laying low and flying under the radar, no tasteless pun intended. Radio silence on all fronts told him that this was the case, or else he would know by now, regrettably, where the Trickster had decided to settle down. 

Some small part of him told him to let it be, the lack of contact between them. Maybe it was destined to fall apart, and better, ultimately, for both parties involved. But if that were indeed the case, it sure as hell didn’t feel like it to Sam. He barely ate, slept, dreamt. He spent an hour in the shower this morning, spacing out into the comfort of memories paired with disastrous, intrusive images of the end game he’d accidentally set in motion. His old nightmares, those with Lucifer’s voice in his head, cackling fiendishly, paled next to his new anxieties, the idea that he’d fucked up on a level that transcended his past mistakes by a mile and a half, and that Gabriel, who’d done nothing but wanted attention from him--attention that he deserved, no less--was going to pay for that in the end. 

And although he desired reconciliation, perhaps that wasn’t in the future. It wasn’t that he was discouraged, per se, by the lack of information he’d been presented with over the last couple weeks, but the fact that Gabriel hadn’t reached out to any of them, even Cas, was concerning. If he were intent on burning bridges with Sam, he’d done a very successful job in extending the collateral damage to anyone who might be willing to help him. It was clever, really, and stupid that Sam didn’t think he had the guts to perform such a bold act of sacrifice, but then, knowing Gabe, he probably didn’t feel like he was losing much.

After all, Cas had stated that the defeathered Trickster’s explanation for leaving was for the benefit of everyone else involved, Sam in particular, which implied without meaning to that he didn’t think he would be missed by anyone in the house. Untrue, obviously. The relentless, feral animal tearing at his heart on the hour begged to differ on the validity of such an assumption. The circumstances were no help, obviously, with Raphael and the like, but even if those cards weren’t in play, Sam still would’ve been miserable, doubtlessly.

Because...scared though he might have been to admit it…

...the kind of feelings Sam had about Gabriel were...not something he’d felt in a very long time. Not because he’d not let himself feel them, either, because it wasn’t safe or it was doomed to be temporary, but because he hadn’t met someone who truly accepted him for him. And after the hell he’d been put through over the past decade plus, both literally and metaphorically, he thought he was forever going to be too damaged for anyone to ever want him, until Castiel had bolted from the house, and then re-emerged four months later beside the familiar face of his snarky, short, terrifyingly powerful older brother who Sam actually used to hate, just a little.

Mystery Spot was not ever going to be something he spontaneously forgot. 

But Gabriel, well, was annoyingly persistent in his endeavors to win Sam’s favor, particularly once Ambriel departed for culinary school. And up to New Orleans, even, he’d been resistant to let such an ambiguously moraled being grow close to him, but the gesture of kindness done for his nightmares had shifted his opinion drastically of the guy. He often thought about the words the Trickster had said to him that night, before curing his insomnia, and eventually curling up beside him to sleep on the couch, a precursor to his current condition: Just call me and I’ll come. But just you. Not Dean. Just you. 

And then he grew ill, feathers falling from once perfect wings, radiant and golden in their hapless glory, and instead of shrinking back into a shell, hissing at any hand that came his way, he leaned on the hunter for support, using his shoulder as pillow and his ear as counselor to describe how lost he felt. Still, he never abandoned his sense of humor, often making snide jabs at Dean’s wardrobe, Cas’s cluelessness with pop culture, or Sam’s height. When the younger Winchester had seen his wings, he’d felt the bond between them change to something incredibly more intimate than it had been before, but he’d never have thought the term ‘historical honor’ applied until after Dean told him. His brain hadn’t been in a clear place that night though, asking something so obscenely personal of such a private being, and then following that up with the beginnings of absurd thoughts that carried through well into the morning, when Gabe walked into the kitchen at 6am, bags under his eyes and hands shakily gripping the coffee cup presented to him by Sam. 

They worsened with the weeks that followed, each time the increasingly human archangel leaned into his arm, usually graduating to napping beside him, or laughed softly at some sassy remark Sam would make, about either Dean or something irrelevant, glancing at his feet and shoving his hands in his pockets as soon as the hunter would notice the smile growing on his face. And slowly, Sam began to want more than evenings transcribing Metatron’s shitty handwriting. He wanted Netflix nights on the sofa, a blanket and popcorn between them, aquarium outings where the Trickster would explain the origins of each and every fish in the sea in comedic, sardonic tone that usually poked fun at his brothers, and more than anything, to be able to spend lazy mornings in bed, tracing patterns into his skin until they eventually became ticklish and Gabriel either reached around to verbally threaten him to stop, or abruptly shriek and roll out of bed onto the floor, taking a tangle of sheets with him, as he was, by past experience, a blanket hog. 

Presently, Sam sighed, closing his eyes tightly and tossing the bloody rag he’d used to fix Dean’s face in the garbage. He then straightened up from putting all his weight against the counter and exited the kitchen, leaving Dean in the position of examining his newly earned injuries in the reflective surface of one of the many steel pans on the rack above the island. The hallways were quiet, unsurprisingly; Mary had gone out to talk John down, perhaps coerce some sense into him about the marriage between Dean and Cas, which she’d known about for months, evidently, unbeknownst to any of them. She had said that she was going to wait for Dean to tell her himself--which, despite his misery, Sam found incredibly laughable a sentence--rather than approach him or Castiel about it, and also that she supported them both in their relationship.

That probably meant the world to Dean, seeing as he’d practically severed his kinship to their father today, once his hero, but to be truthful, Sam wasn’t really focused on his brother’s drama. Passing by the room once occupied by the missing archangel, he paused, briefly debating whether or not he wanted to take time out of his research and study to sulk about what hell he’d brought spiraling down upon their friendship, then swiftly turned and entered, closing the door behind him. There was nothing inside to denote it as being any different than any other room in the Bunker now that there was no longer a tenant, with his horn tucked in the closet and candy jar placed beside the bed, which Sam presently sat on, letting his body curl forward as his hands found one another and began to automatically clasp together for comfort.

Another sigh. Blaming himself for it was unproductive and selfish, and just another distraction from working tirelessly at the real goal here, which was finding Gabe and…

There it was. Like Dean had steely denied loving Castiel up until the pivotal moment of life or death, Sam was bound by hesitancy to say what he needed to. I love you were not words that could, fairly, leave his mouth, and there was not a doubt in his mind that Gabriel wouldn’t believe him anyway were he to say them. He would feign ignorance until it faded into annoyance and anger, and there would be no talking to him past that, because he’d try to ghost, although he may find it difficult to do as a human, and at the very least, he would silence himself and hear no more. Sam wasn’t allowed to say them anyway even if...maybe he did mean them.

Because he was still with Jessica, in a situation that seemed unwinnable from whichever angle he approached it from. It was a historical event, Dean being right, but it had happened, during their disagreement over Castiel. Sam wasn’t his Stanford self anymore, something he’d known whenever he’d reconciled with his girlfriend, but he’d been hoping, with how strong their relationship had been all those years ago, it could withstand the changes he’d undergone in his life, even if Jess could never understand them. And that, that was naive, idealistic thinking if there ever was any. Jess was still the same girl he’d fallen in love with years ago, cheerful and dedicated to whatever she put her mind to, but she fell short of being able to empathize with years of torture and hell and being the vessel for Satan himself. 

And while she showed signs of wanting to learn about his life, Sam genuinely couldn’t imagine anything worse than Jessica becoming a hunter. Not because of who she was, but who he was, and what had become of her as a result. She’d be a target for the entire monster community, walking around with a red circle painted across her back, with a sign beneath, reading ‘Winchester family.’ And that was never what she’d wanted, either. She’d wanted to be a veterinarian, treating the pets both of them loved so much when they used to visit the Humane Society in Palo Alto. Never this. This was something no one should have ever volunteered to become, for love or not.

He might have been trapped, but it didn’t mean she had to be too, especially if the way he used to feel wasn’t how he felt anymore. The dim hope that she’d be able to pick up where Gabriel had left off in helping resolve the self-hatred and depressive outlook he’d had on rolling out of bed every morning hadn’t come to pass, fading away into nothingness and, leaving only a hollow shell of wanting, longing for the person who’d brought him out of the darkness and loneliness to come back. Do it again.

Sitting numbly at the edge of the bed, door cracked and the lights barely qualifying as being on, Sam felt the tears coming on before swallowing them again. Why did he ever think this was a good idea? 

Before the chance to get washed away in regret could overtake him, however, he heard the tinest knock on the door and straightened up, just in time to see the one of the faces he’d just been thinking about peek around the corner, eyebrows knit together in confusion. “Sam? Hey. Do you have a second?”

“Sure.” 

He had all the time in the world. Wasn’t like Gabriel was going to pop in any time soon. Or ever.

She gingerly slid around the door without further opening it, and then promptly closing it before taking a stand in front of him, hands clasped together over her jeans. Her expression betrayed worry, which he had to wonder about, having rarely seen it recently, but other than that, she appeared as flawless as usual. Even rolled out of bed perfect, Jess. 

It was hard to compete with, if he were being honest.

“I think...that we need to talk about what’s really been on your mind.” 

“Huh?” She could’ve been referring to anything, with how well they knew each other at this point. There used to be a day where they could read each other’s needs and desires simply by glancing at the other, but no longer. 

“I...spoke to Castiel, before he left. And I wasn’t sure how to approach you about it before now, but he told me...” She paused briefly, glancing in any direction that wasn’t his before continuing. “He...told me about how things were, before I got here. Before Mary, John and I got here, I should say. You and Gabriel were really close, according to him. And honestly...I’d believe it, judging from your behavior over the past couple weeks. So, I was wondering if you could answer a simple question for me about you two.”

“Sure. What’s up?”

Pretending was becoming all too easy in the Trickster’s absence. Someone had to lie around here if it wasn’t him, after all, right? And why shouldn’t it have been Sam? Every minute of his life, he felt like breaking down and collapsing into a puddle on the ground. He needed to lie, to survive.

“Were you two together?”

The question didn’t seem real. “W...What? I’m sorry?”

“You heard me. Don’t be surprised either, that I’m asking. It’s a genuine inquiry, you know, as to whether or not you were involved with this missing angel, wait, no, archangel, sorry, before I got here.”

“Jess, uh...I...I don’t really know how to answer that.”

A truth. Mostly. Whatever his and Gabriel’s relationship was, it wasn’t as cleanly defined as together or not together. It wasn’t like he’d ever directly asked the guy out, even if he’d been gearing up for it. 

“Okay. Ambiguous, but I’ll let it slide. Did you love him?”

Fuck. Why the hell was she asking that? Point blank? He’d forgotten that Jess didn’t beat around the bush. There were never any games with her, hence the easy-going nature of their relationship. Like him, she usually took care of personal grievances as they occurred rather than letting them fester, untreated, as Dean or John did. 

This, however, was not a welcomed statement, where he was concerned. So, he averted his eyes, pursing his lips, and let his hands rise to cover his chin and mouth.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he heard after an eternity of silence, and a sigh quickly followed as a weight joined him on the bed and he struggled to tear his eyes away from the riveting sight of the ugly carpet inside this particular room of the Bunker and look at her. But, much to his surprise, Jess wasn’t focused on him. Instead, she was looking at a picture in the far off corner of the room that Sam hadn’t noticed upon coming in. 

It was of the four of them at Devil’s Lake, when they’d gone to retrieve Michael’s lance. Dean stood proudly beside it, wielding the weapon like a king next to Cas, whose wonder and love for the hunter had been memorialized in the image by his glance next to him, where the awe showed with little effort. Meanwhile, on the other side, Sam himself had towered over the others, particularly Gabriel, who looked thrilled as could be with his trumpet clutched in one hand and his other pulling on Sam’s sleeve, as though to ask him something. The youngest of the group was smiling brightly, as though mid-laugh, but his face was turned towards Gabe’s, as though the inquiry had already passed between them.

He felt sick to his stomach.

“I’m not mad, Sam,” Jess spoke, finally facing him. Her eyes didn’t betray her words, either. She, truly, did not look angered so much as upset. “I mean that. I just...I wish you would have told me, is all. I never would have asked for us to get back together if I knew you were with someone else. Even if you hadn’t told them your feelings yet. Why didn’t you say something? Stop me?”

“I…” _I wanted to be that person again. That guy from Stanford you fell in love with, and said you’d marry, if I should ever get my shit together and ask. That guy who hadn’t seen what I’ve seen, endured what I have. That guy who had never been to hell, done a trial by heaven, died for his sins and that of those around him._ “I wanted to pretend, Jess. Like I could be happy again. Content, with my life.”

“You were happy, though. With him. Cas told me. Sam, you should’ve just let me down easy, rather than going through all of this and losing him. Not that I need to tell you that, of course; I’m sure you’re feeling pretty shitty right now.”

“You betcha.” The hunter chuckled humorlessly, facial muscles tensing as he struggled not to notice the world crumbling around him. Softly, he felt a head lean itself into his shoulder, not romantically, but out of sympathy. Kindness. Even in hurting, Jess was kind. 

Part of the reason he’d fallen in love with her in the first place.

“Is there anything I can do to help? I can’t quite get over feeling like I caused all of this.”

“You didn’t, Jess. It’s on me. It’s…” He sighed heavily, chest seemingly collapsing as he exhaled. “It’s all on me.”

“Maybe so,” she whispered into the fabric of his flannel, voice distorted by the material. “But still. Can I help? I want you to be happy. Even if it hurts for me, I think you deserve a happy ending, for trying to give me one.”

Sam suppressed a groan, agonized to the core by her words. His mind was buzzing, struggling to come up with reasons to even get up, leave this bed, head in the other room to work, inevitably hit another dead end. Everything she’d said was right. He was an utter fool for ever gambling Gabriel’s feelings on the head of something as unlikely to work as this, especially when he was...already being fixed, by the very person he hurt.

“If you…” he started, uncertain of how to properly phrase the sentence. “If you were in Gabe’s position, where would you have gone?”

“Personally? Home. But I have family, and I get the feeling he isn’t overly attached to his, besides Cas and that nice angel from dinner. What was her name? Ambriel. Anyway, with all that considered, is there...some place else you know he likes? Some place where he could fit in, feel like he belongs?”

“Uh…”

Gabriel wasn’t exactly one for settling. He’d traipsed from town to town whenever he sorted out just desserts for the unhappy residents of whatever place was unfortunate enough to house him. The Bunker had been a temporary place of habitation for him, although he’d grown content here in the library and common area, next to either Sam or Netflix. Beyond that, Sam couldn’t be sure. There were definitely cities Gabriel liked more than others, but most were dens of inequity, unsafe for him without his wings. And expensive. Very, very expensive.

Las Vegas was one. Too pricey for how little money he had though, even with a job, which Sam presumed he would have found to pay the bills by now, assuming he had bothered to settle and wasn’t just bar-hopping and sleeping in his stolen car. There was also Lawrence, which the Trickster didn’t seem to mind, but that would be too close in proximity to Lebanon for him to consider. He liked the scenes in New York and San Francisco, claimed they knew how to have a good time, and yet, without his wings, Sam couldn’t picture him there, living it up.

He was running out of options.

All but one, at least, which occurred to him not a moment later when he spoke it. “New Orleans. He loves New Orleans. We went there for a case in February and he wouldn’t stop talking about it. He loves the culture and the history, and I guess he has quite a few memories there too, of playing horn with the greats. We were supposed to go to a parade, the two of us, but then we ended up missing it due to a vamp hunt, and instead, we just ended up drinking and falling asleep together on the couch.”

He trailed off whilst speaking, but when he next looked up, he found Jess smiling wryly at him, as though he’d had some kind of major breakthrough. “What?” he inquired, mystified.

“Sounds like he shares your feelings.”

“Maybe.” Probably not, considering recent events. Sam didn’t really deserve to have them returned, now that he’d fucked up everything between them because of a small hope and a lack of confidence that the archangel would ever really want him for longer than a night.

“Then I guess I know where you’re going. Pack a bag, Sam. You’re heading down south. Might want to bring some mosquito spray.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never been more south than Kentucky, so I have no idea whether or not mosquitoes exist south of that border.


	23. Stranger Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas has to decide whether or not to come clean about some of his recent unholiness, Sam has issues picking out a jacket, and Gabriel has dinner with the devil--and his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! You all probably thought this wasn't getting finished, didn't you?? Well. I, uh...I wasn't sure it was getting finished either. To no one's surprise, least of all mine, the senior year of college is an ass-kicker and I have been in academic suffertown for the past three months. Fortunately, I've had the bones of this chapter done since summer so throw in a little healthy, completely fabricated competition between myself and one of my friends who is trying to polish off one of his own fics, and this chapter is magically done. There won't be a quick follow-up, sadly, because I go back to school in a few days, but perhaps winter break will yield good things for my poor, aching brain. In the meantime, I'm sorry about the lateness and I hope this comes as good news to those of you who have been waiting on me!

Upon landing outside the Bunker, nearly losing his balance at the end of his flight and slamming facefirst into the door, Castiel stumbled into a giant cluster of leaves, which blew back like confetti at a parade due to the force of his wings. However, the angel barely noticed as he straightened up, a crusty, wrinkled one gently floating down to capture his nose before sliding off and continuing its descent back down towards the ground. He was far too focused on the words he’d been relaying on the way over.

It seemed like something he would do, going too far in his anger and making a stupid decision. But that was the old Cas, who hung out with a Dean Winchester who was still 100% in the closet, and a Sam Winchester who wouldn’t have dreamt of taking the Trickster out on a date. Impulsive, emotionally-driven choices enacted without proper application of logic were a trait of the past, and something he’d left behind after burning bridges with Gabriel at Balthazar’s party. At least, he’d thought he had. According to where he’d just been, and the metaphorical red hands shoved in his pockets, perhaps not.

The worst part of all of this was not even something physical that had happened. True, kissing Hannah back had been a grave error, multiplied whenever he shoved her up against the wall and his body physiologically responded in what it thought was a preamble to sex, and it had not been wise to cozy up to her under influence of tequila and whatever else he had consumed in a sad attempt to escape his problems. But those both paled in comparison to the thoughts he had in the moments, where his hand had inched up her hip, pulling black fabric with it, in the desire of completely severing any connection he had to the situation going on inside the very building he currently stood outside. 

When he’d kissed her, he’d known exactly what he was doing. And that was as unforgivable an act as any, because why he’d done so, why he’d ever bothered giving the interaction a chance to unfold into something more than just inebriated, arrhythmic dancing, was for the sake of hurting Dean. For everytime Cas had been forced to overhear the grunting, sexual hums of him with some meaningless one-night stand, and every time he’d put a mile’s worth of distance between himself and the angel whenever John walked into the room, he’d spent yet another second tied up in Hannah’s embrace.

When he’d heard Dean deflect a few days ago with “We’re just friends, Dad,” it reminded him of all of that, and the words stuck like knives, undulled even by the vows they’d taken in January. And they had continued to sink, plunging into his skin when he left, and digging deeper with each moment more he received no confirmation that Dean would bother to do the right thing. If it even was the right thing. Cas had questioned, briefly, when he’d shoved Hannah up against that wall and conceded momentarily to his desire to want to take their friendship to the next level, whether or not he and Dean ever really belonged together. If fate existed like that for them. If soul mates were such a thing, and he hadn’t just presented his heart to a human only for them to drop it, and let the shattered pieces sit in eerie, painfully loud silence.

But the moment had ended not a second later. And he’d left, breaking off his only contact with heaven, and really his only friend still allowed through the pearly white gates. Because he’d not died for this man not to stand by him when it came down to it. He’d meant his vows. John Winchester would not, and could not change that, for him or for Dean, and he’d best not try, lest Cas give in on that urge to run his angel blade through the man’s eye in a personal execution. 

So he was here, to tell Dean that he would stand by him when the time came, that he would provide the necessary support. It would be difficult, unlatching Sam from his table in the library, crunching dates and locations in an effort to find Gabriel, but Cas would do that too, if Dean desired. He deserved a support system for this. It had to be traumatizing, and Cas never doubted that, but giving his husband an ultimatum was likely not the best way of going about this, and he had to take responsibility for that.

He’d not yet decided whether or not to mention his exchange with Hannah when he walked through the door, closing it quietly behind him in an attempt to lessen the attention drawn to himself by entering. However, no one was present in the war room to see his descent down the spiral staircase, not until he’d breached the hallway into the library, and spotted Sam, who was in the process of staring down two jackets laid out on the table, an agonized expression befalling his usually gentle features. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Cas a second later when he went to sigh, then interrupted himself with, “Hey, Cas. Glad to see you. Could I get your opinion on something?”

Cas hadn’t planned on pausing before going to see Dean, but for Sam, he would make an exception, if for curiosity than nothing else. Not once in the almost ten years they’d known each other had the hunter ever stopped to ask for fashion advice. Nodding, he approached to stand beside his brother-in-law, taking in the options, both of which fit Winchester couture quite well. 

“Which one of these jackets do you think...um…” The hunter paused, chuckling at his feet before once more beginning, “Sorry, let me start over. Which of these do you think would look better on me?”

This was not Cas’s wheelhouse. Not even close. Not only did he not understand why in the fresh hell Sam was asking such an irrelevant question when all he did was sit at home stressing over Gabe’s absence, but he also questioned why he was being put in charge of judging what looked best on Sam. What were his qualifications to make such a decision? Gabriel had called him a fashion nightmare before, when they’d travelled together, and made frequent changes to his wardrobe, ‘in the name of the greater good,’ as his brother called it. 

“What is the occasion?” Cas asked, not so much intending to get a better feel for what the event called for, but more so wondering what reason Sam had to be leaving the house. Surely he wasn’t going out with Jessica? Not when there was still work to be done, and faux pagan gods to be found.

Sam took a deep breath before looking at the angel and responding evenly, “I’m going to New Orleans.”

The panic likely showed on Cas’s face, that he had misstepped and somehow dropped a hint about his brother’s location before leaving. He didn’t think he had. Sure, he’d been perhaps a little too honest with Jessica about Sam’s relationship with Gabriel before storming out the door after his fight with Dean, but he had not once, at any given time, mentioned anything about the city they’d visited in February, to Jess, Dean, Mary or Sam. Obviously not John either, but that didn’t need stating.

“New Orleans?” Cas questioned, unsure of what to say.

“Yeah. Call me crazy, but I think that’s where Gabriel might be. I haven’t really got anything to back that up other than a hunch, but...it’s worth going, to test it and see. Not like we’ve got any new leads on Raphael, right?”

Involuntarily, Cas was reminded of Hannah, and her puffy eyes before she’d bolted on him. Unable to meet Sam’s face, he fixed his gaze upon the choices, which he conveniently found to be nestled within the bookshelves.. “No. What does that have to do with a jacket? Are you asking for weather-related purposes?”

Sam smiled shyly, a small amount of red blossoming across his cheeks. “U-uh, no. I’m asking because I want to look good when I go. I know that it’s…” Glancing down at his feet, Sam paused before continuing. “...I know it’s a long shot, considering what I put him through, but I wanted to apologize, and ask for forgiveness. And if doesn’t offer it, that’s fine. I...would understand why. But he needs to know that I’m sorry at least.”

Cas nodded. Despite seeing no need for the situation currently laid out on the table, he did understand the other sentiments Sam expressed, and was actually somewhat relaxed by how calmly the hunter had taken his entrance, particularly since he feared his body language betrayed just how anxious he felt, walking back into the Bunker with a guilty conscience. The fact that Sam had sussed out Gabriel’s location without needing his assistance was relieving as well. If he could avoid the fallout from having lied to him about his amount of knowledge regarding Gabe’s absence, he was going to. Telling Dean about Hannah was bad enough.

Maybe he shouldn’t have been debating that either. Their exchange was a once-and-done anomaly that would do better not resting on Dean’s conscience. But that left it on Cas’s, plaguing him with the notion that he was nothing but the same untrustworthy person he’d been years ago, when all three of them traded secrets and lies with smiles to get by. Was it selfish, telling Dean? Or was it more selfish not to, so he’d not have to manage the inevitable backlash he would receive for his mindless behavior? 

He had to decide rather suddenly when he felt the weight of a gentle hand place itself on his shoulder, and Dean appeared at his side, smiling at him like he’d just won the lottery. Cas barely had the mind to pay attention to the words he spoke as Sam picked up one of the jackets, giving it a scrutinizing eye, “Hey, angel. Wasn’t expecting you so soon. I just left you a voicemail not even two minutes ago.”

“Dean…” Cas started uncertainly, turning his entire body to face the hunter and reaching upwards to bring his fingers against the hunter’s jaw. “What...happened to your face?”

“Oh, this? Please. You should see the other guy. Who is, uh, by the way, my dad.” 

“He did this,” the angel spoke slowly, not questioning so much as stating as he side-eyed Dean’s bruised eye and scraped cheek, running a thumb against the wound and healing it as he went.

“Yeah. It’s not a big deal. I won that fight by a mile and a half. Told him about me and you. Might’ve accidentally mentioned Sam and Gabe too. I’m glad you’re home though. Where were you?”

“You what?” Sam sputtered, fingers seizing to abruptly drop the coat he’d been holding. It abruptly fell from his grip and landed on his feet, splaying out over top his shoes before he slowly reached down to retrieve it, eyes still on Dean with incredulity.

Cas glanced at the taller of the two, hoping that he could stall this situation, but knowing, all the same, that it was a pointless effort. “I was with Hannah,” he said in a low voice, avoiding piercing green eyes.

“Oh. Okay. Did you learn anything about the Raphael situation?”

Dean took this news in stride, better than he usually did concerning Cas’s now ex-friend. It made the angel not want to say anything. Not want to rock this very fragile boat they found themselves in, amongst choppy waters for some time now. Again, he had to ask himself whether or not this was the right decision. Whether or not this was supposed to be. If destiny existed where love did, or if his free will was just a damning fact of his existence, and that he’d past overstepped that boundary and with five minutes of rash emotion, fucked up what he’d been working towards for years.

Fortunately, he was a decent enough faker. Better than his brother as of late. “No,” he sighed discontentedly. “We mostly drank cocktails and attempted to dance.”

Although he could see hurt tinge in his husband’s eyes, Dean still played it cool when he replied, “Sounds productive.”

“Excuse me, you told Dad what?” Sam interjected, still vying for attention.

Dean stood upright, as though he’d forgotten his brother was in the room, and turned, inhaling heavily before speaking. “That he’s a homophobic dickwad and he was wrong about neither of his sons turning out to be fags. I didn’t really mean to get you involved, man. It just kind of came out.”

“Ah. Well, that’s…” Sam paused, bringing his attention back to the jackets once more. “I would’ve liked to have told him myself. But that’s fine. I’m glad you came out to him, once and for all.” He smiled, fake, but probably not for their topic of conversation. Sam’s emotions were always surface dwellers, clinging to his sleeve, where he wore them with compassion. And right now, he was wearing neon anxiety with a vibrant glow.

Castiel hadn’t spoken to his brother since before he’d left the Bunker so long ago and even then, he had not given the impression he was of a forgiving mental state. Unless distance had gifted him with the ability to overlook his nature of holding grudges and inflicting misery on those who had wronged him, Cas saw this venture of Sam’s going south in more ways than one. Gabriel wasn’t going to presumably be in a mood to see them, now or ever. Not after what had happened with Jess. 

“So, are you about ready to go?”

Dean’s shift in topic snapped him out of his daze, where he’d apparently been zoning in on the jacket Sam had apparently decided not to take with him, but when Cas looked up, the taller of the two hunters seemed just as confused as he was. “Oh. Um. I guess I’m about as ready as I’ll ever be.” 

“Cool. I’ll start Baby then.” With a single pat on Cas’s shoulder, his husband turned and started in the direction of the garage. 

Wait a minute. Was Dean--?

“You’re letting me take your car?” Sam followed up, before Cas was able to even form a coherent version of his question. 

Dean paused mid-step, before twisting around and throwing Sam a look of disbelief. “No. I’m getting her started for all of us. You didn’t think you were going to New Orleans without us, did you?”

Sam was frozen for a second, appearing uncertain before dropping his gaze to the floor and then looking back up with a smile. “No, I guess not. Thanks, Dean.” As he avoided the gaze of any and all beings that he happened to be in the room with, Dean nodded soundlessly, turning and continuing on his way. 

\--

Unreal wasn’t an appropriate wording. Surreal wasn’t right either though. It was more like a fever dream, or some distant memory, altered with photo filters until it was virtually unrecognizable, a long, narrow, wooden table piled with food reduced to a short, mildly scratched variant with small plates of home fries and burgers adorning it. The faces hadn’t changed except in flesh, and that was the least disconcerting part of it. Maybe that should’ve been concerning, but Gabriel was past being concerned for himself at this point. He genuinely didn’t care.

There was something about seeing his oldest brother, a literal knight in shining armor, with an impossible stature and physique, in a scrawny factory-reject Winchester barely drinking age, that did that to an angel. Archangel. Whatever. His title didn’t matter anymore. He was nothing but some inconsequential horn player for an inconsequential big band in New Orleans now. And Michael? Michael was a Starbucks barista. He served coffee to teenage girls who made heart eyes at him and snapped pictures of their drinks to put on their social media. 

The world could have literally been ending and Gabriel probably wouldn’t have even thought anything of it at this point. He was so thrown, sitting in a Denny’s, listening to Lucifer blather on about his experience with some rude cashier at McDonald’s, while Michael inhaled an entire plate of nothing but home fries with hot sauce on them, like an utter heathen, and Ambriel stared, utterly captivated by the sight, nothing could shock him at this point. Literally nothing. Their father could’ve walked in at any moment and he would have just chalked it up to another fucking Monday. 

Human existence was hard. He didn’t know how the hell Sam and Dean managed this mundane circus of bullshit for so long. No wonder each was always so willing to sacrifice themselves for a cause. This was miserable.

“So, I gotta ask, where is Cassie these days? How is he doing? Still making heart eyes at Deanie Boy?”

Michael almost choked, causing a mechanical grin to erupt across Gabe’s face as he softly responded with a trace amount of venom, “I would imagine.”

Lucifer huffed, rolling his eyes like the drama queen he’d always been, even in heaven, and turned away for a moment to glance around for their waitress, probably to make some ridiculous request for yet another plate of hot sauce for the monster seated next to him, before continuing on with his opinion, which no one had asked for. “Ugh. How can Samsquatch even stand to be around that? I always wondered. Even when I was in his head, I still never got any answers about that. Kept saying he just wanted them to be happy. Puh. Yeah right. He became third-wheel the moment ol’ Castiel dropped by my place and stitched his boytoy back together. What’s so great about that? His girlfriend died. He wasn’t about to find any happiness after all of that. She was his ‘soulmate,’ or whatever.”

Ah. Just when he thought couldn’t be hurt by anything else. Gabriel lowered his gaze to his plate, which was mostly empty, save for a few French fries, as Michael chimed in, mouth full of hashbrowns, “Soulmates don’t exist.”

Lucifer quirked a brow. “You sure about that? You seem to be getting busy with those fries.”

“Excuse me? I resent the idea of inserting this vessel’s penis into this food. That is not sensical in the slightest, Lucifer.”

“Says the guy who sleeps with his socks on.”

“I’ll have you know that my feet get cold in the night!”

Some things never changed, he supposed. Different setting, different faces, same beings. Same brothers. This was friendly bickering though, which he hadn’t been accustomed to in quite a long time. In fact, he could’ve blinked and imagined his father nearby, telling the two to hush, and Raphael a seat down, picking at his food with disinterest as he listened to the conversation at hand with a nosy ear. 

It was...almost refreshing, to be reminded of the good times again. He’d never fathomed such a thought ever surfacing until now, but...considering recent circumstances, it meant sense. Not having to converse with the rather nasty voice in his head was a relief. Not having to fall subject to its taunts and jeers about his status as human, and rejected human no less.

Here, he could play audience to a petty show of brotherhood and kinship between two archangels bereft of their titles, who weren’t above food-fighting if it came to it. Michael would never admit he was capable of such childishness, but no. His twitching hands and glances towards his plate said everything. And Lucifer, of course, was always ready to throw a tantrum, no matter the time or place. It was almost like a talent, except nothing like it at all.

“But wait, what about John and Mary Winchester?” Ambriel asked, watching their incredibly petty exchange occur with avid attention. “Weren’t they technically soulmates?” 

“By design. They hated each other, initially.” Michael was short with his response, but his eyes lingered over the petite angel just a second longer than normal. “However, soulmates are the business of cherubim. We of a higher power do not believe in such a thing.”

“So you don’t believe that some people are just meant for each other? Even Dean and Castiel? Because they seem to get along pretty well. Kind of. I’ve never seen two people look at each other like they do. That has to mean something, right?”

“Castiel has a weakness for humanity. In a way, he always has. I had hoped it would be an advantage to us, but in the end, I suppose I underestimated his undying love for these horrible fleshsuits.”

Ambriel frowned. “You mean the fleshsuits we now live in, permanently,” Gabriel spoke quietly, just loud enough to snag Michael’s attention. His brother looked away not a second later, not willing to admit his own flaw. Fortunately, he didn’t have to let the table settle into awkward silence for long before Lucifer spoke again.

“Well, I’m gonna go ahead and put my money on John Winchester rolling over in his grave then. Dude’s awful. I mean, less awful than Dean-o in some ways, but most? Awful. Terrible. I would give him to heaven just so I could avoid his ugly mug. Bitch could’ve set me free much earlier if he’d just had the balls to set aside his own masochism for some good ol’ fashioned butchering lessons with Alistair. But no.”

“Oh, but he’s not--” Ambriel started, before receiving a sharp kick to the leg by Gabriel, whose stern glance stopped her dead in the middle of her sentence.

“He’s not what?” Michael asked conversationally.

“...uh…” 

Fuck. Well, they’d just have to bite the bullet then. Ambriel couldn’t keep a secret anyway. It was too much concentration for her. “Dead,” Gabriel clarified, clearing his throat and looking anywhere but at his brothers. “And neither is Mary. Or Jessica Moore.”

“Oh shit!”’ Lucifer exclaimed, clapping his hands together and leaning back against the cushioned backing of the booth to cackle. “You’re joking! Yeah right. Dead people out, wandering amongst us. Now that’s super likely.”

A few seconds of staring was all it took for the obvious to sink in. “Oh. Fuck. Seriously?”

Michael was uneasy. “That isn’t..right.”

The obligation to protect the Winchesters was overshadowed by his own envy and anger for one individual in that group, and hence, the barrier of a filter was removed as Gabriel added curtly, “I agree.”

It took a few moments, but Lucifer finally managed to come up with a statement regarding the topic. “So I guess maybe Sam isn’t third wheel after all.”

Heh. Maybe. Gabriel wanted to swallow the lump of emotions building in his throat but he couldn’t. It was insurmountably large, full of guilt for what he said, and what he did, and the very, very scarring fact that he had taken that role with Jess’s return. But he would never tell them that. They may have been his brothers, but that didn’t mean anything, especially with their history. And becoming third wheel was only a backdrop to the real issue that had been at hand and...well...persisted.

He wanted it to be easier, forgetting someone. But human memory wasn’t so easily repressed, and what he brought to work everyday proved it. Everyday was more cruel for his psyche though, coming up with more potential backstory to his relationship with the Winchesters this past year. Replacement? Placeholder? Hell, at this point, he probably qualified as ‘last man on Earth’ status with their lives and how few people they knew. The pool of options for acceptable booty calls was limited. And he was convenient. Every thought was cruel, biting. Maybe he deserved that for what he’d done in his life. But still. He could’ve done without it eating into his time, now that it was in short supply. 

He should’ve been moving on, taking up that very handsome saxophone player on his invitation to dinner at Lenny’s. But he wasn’t. Maybe because he liked to wallow in his own misery. Maybe because he knew no one else was capable of understanding how he felt like Sam was. But either way, he sabotaged himself on purpose and stayed in silent agony over the shambles that were this sad little life he contented himself with. It was what it was.

“Gabriel, if I may ask, where are you both staying now that we’re all mortal and need lodging? The hotel Lucifer and I have been at for the past couple days has been...less than desirable.”

Lucifer chuckled devilishly under his breath as he suddenly threw an arm around his brother, who stiffened against the touch immediately. “He’s just mad about having to hear other people getting laid instead of him.”

“We have a house,” Ambriel announced brightly, smiling at both of the contemptible idiots across the table. “In the Holy Cross neighborhood. Kind of funny, huh?”

“Whoa!” Lucifer removed his appendage from around Michael’s shoulders to slam it down on the table, propelling himself slightly forward to continue in a less obnoxious whisper, “A house? Seriously? Dude. You gotta let us in on this. That hotel is full of STDs and roaches. C’mon. We’re probably gonna die there if we have to stay there another week.”

“Then perish,” Gabriel replied shortly, meeting his brother’s alarmed blue eyes with humorless hazel. “That’s tragic, but not my fault, and I neither trust you, nor your ability to provide rent, so no.”

The fact that something as mundane and altogether human as his brothers moving in with him was a thing that could even possibly occur was revolting and ultimately too human for even the very human archangel to consider as a real choice. Lucifer could, and would, gut him in his sleep if the opportunity both a) presented itself and b) benefitted him somehow, minute and insignificant it may be. 

“Okay, but Michael has a job. Right? Michael, speak up.”

“Let me finish my hashbrowns.” 

“Your hashbrowns aren’t gonna keep you warm at night, Mikey!”

“Neither are you, and yet, I let you stay.” Lucifer sputtered incredulously in response, while Michael swallowed, gently setting his fork down before grabbing a napkin, wiping his hands off, and directing his gaze to Gabriel, who narrowed his eyes before a single word had even left his brother’s mouth. “A house, you say? Well, we could always chip in. Pay rent. Lucifer can find a job, he just hasn’t tried that hard.”

“What do you mean I haven’t tried that hard?” The devil hissed, pushing into his brother’s side with needy, annoyed hands. “I applied to ten jobs, and five of those weren’t even senior management positions.”

Ah, so that explained it. Gabriel had to admit, he was neither disappointed nor surprised. Typical of Lucifer, thinking he had divine right of kings when it came to an occupation. However, he doubted his brother would have much luck in the field, even if he interviewed for positions he was actually qualified for, simply because of his toddler-like temper tantrums and distaste for the human race. Not that it mattered either way. Neither of these two heathens were staying in his house.

“It’s a rental,” he explained quietly, leaning over an empty plate to speak to both of them. “I can pay it just fine in full every month. So, as cool as it’d be to get the gang back together again, um, I’m gonna have to pass. There’s nothing in it for me but a migraine, so sorry. You two humps will just have to find another brother to crash with.”

“You say that as though we have an excess of siblings,” Michael retorted, sounding wounded. “Gabriel. Reconsider. It will be temporary, until we are able to get our own place. Say, three months? That’s doable, right?”

“C’mon,” Lucifer added in a low whisper, winking. “You still love us, or else you would’ve left us hanging today. Give a little more, Gabe. It wouldn’t kill ya.”

“It did once,” the youngest of the three growled, his hazel eyes narrowed into little slits at the blonde across the table, who seemed immune to the visual threat. In all honesty though, he wasn’t all that irritated. The noise of Lucifer and Michael’s petty in-fighting was almost comforting in a way. It reminded him of home before it ceased being home, and grounded him to a reality wherein he was still with wings, with grace, and with the ability to punish those who dared wrong him. It was annoying, but not annoying enough for him to dismiss Michael’s offer altogether.

He supposed there was value in letting his brothers stay with him for a little while. It wasn’t as if he was expecting other guests, or anticipating a lifestyle change any time soon. And like this, they were all on equal footing. No fear of being overpowered through grace when all of them were without. Leaning back into the booth, and folding his hands in his lap, he cast a peripheral glance at Ambriel, to see if she were at all bothered with this exchange but no, she was giggling as Michael attempted his own version of a wink, failing to grasp the concept of only shutting one eye while doing so. 

It was probably a bad idea. No, it was definitely a bad idea. Anything with Lucifer was a bad idea, and including Michael only served to make it worse, and yet, he couldn’t curb the unusual stone sitting in his stomach, telling him to go for it. 

What was the worst thing that could happen...right?


End file.
